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ADAM BEDE 


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LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd, 


TORONTO 









Adam Bede in His Workshop 







ADAM BEDE 

BY 

GEORGE ELIOT ~ 

e> f • - 11 

ql-|-<X V.. tx v?LO ■ 

EDITED WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES 

BY 

SAMUEL W. PATTERSON, A.M., Ph.D. 

HEAD OF THE DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH 
NEW YORK TRAINING SCHOOL FOR TEACHERS 



j$eto J^otk 

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

1923 




RINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OE AMERICA 



Copyright, 1923, 

By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. 


Set up and electrotyped. Published August, 1923 . 







AUG 22 '23 

©C1A711587 


'Wttf J 



CONTENTS 


\ 


Introduction 

Chapter Page 

I. The Workshop . i 

II. The Preaching .io 

III. After the Preaching.31 

IV. Home and Its Sorrows.38 

V. The Rector.55 

VI. The Hall Farm.73 

VII. The Dairy.87 

VIII. AVocation . . . . ^ 93 

IX. Hetty’s World.102 

X. Dinah Visits Lisbeth .no 

XI. In the Cottage.123 

XII. In the Wood.132 

XIII. Evening in the Wood.144 

XIV. The Return Home.150 

XV. The Two Bed-ChXmbers.160 

XVI. Links.174 

XVII. In Which the Story Pauses a Little . . . 188 

XVIII. Church-. > . 198 

XIX. Adam on a Working Day ....... 222 

XX. Adam Visits the Hall Farm..229 

XXI. The Night School and the Schoolmaster . 248 

XXII. Going to the Birthday Feast.265 

XXIII. Dinner-Time.277 

XXIV. The Health-Drinking.283 

XXV. The Games.292 

XXVI. The Dance.301 

XXVII. A Crisis . 313 

XXVIII. A Dilemma ..325 

XXIX. The Next Morning ^ .334 

XXX. The Delivery of the Letter.343 

XXXI. In Hetty’s Bed-Chamber . 357 


ix 




























X 


CONTENTS 


Chapter 

XXXII. Mrs. Poyser “Has Her Say Out” . 

XXXIII. More Links. 

XXXIV. The Betrothal. 

XXXV. The Hidden Dread. 

XXXVI. The Journey in Hope. 

XXXVII. The Journey in Despair . 

XXXVIII. The Quest. 

XXXIX. The Tidings. 

XL. The Bitter Waters Spread . 

XLI. The Eve of the Trial . 

XLII. The Morning of the Trial . 

XLIII. The Verdict. 

XLIV. Arthur’s Return. 

XLV. In the Prison. 

XLVI. The Hours of Suspense . 

XLVII. The Last Moment. 

XLVIII. Another Meeting in the Wood 

XLIX. At the Hall Farm. 

L. In the Cottage. 

LI. Sunday Morning. 

LII. Adam and Dinah. 

LIII. The Harvest Supper. 

LIV. The Meeting on the Hill 

LV. Marriage Bells. 

Epilogue . . .. 

Notes. 


Page 


. 368 

• 378 
. 385 

• 390 

. 397 

. 407 

. 421 

• 436 


444 

454 

460 

465 

473 


481 


• 493 

. 500 

. 502 

• 512 

• 523 

• 535 

• 548 
. 558 

• 572 

. 578 
. 581 

• 585 
























INTRODUCTION 

I. Studying a Literary Masterpiece 

Among the writers of fiction in English there is probably 
no one whom we should place more certainly in the front rank 
than George Eliot. For quality as well as for substantial 
quantity she deserves such commendation. While it is futile, 
of course, to ask who is the greatest in any art, it is far from 
futile to inquire how to distinguish the very great. 

One result of the study of Adam Bede should be the appre¬ 
ciation of the elements that make for enduring worth in 
imaginative writing. We should be able to tell why it is 
great and therefore still read. Though it is a comparatively 
easy matter to state our reasons for the rank of Washington 
and Lincoln among men, it will be found difficult to do so for 
that of a literary masterpiece. 

A number of thoughts might be advanced to help us gain 
the value we should from the study of a novel. There is little 
doubt that the following are important considerations: the 
author’s life and habits of composition; the influence that 
moulded her ideals; the ideas that guided her pen; the places 
where she lived and wrought. All of these matters and others 
that could be mentioned are worth while. They are of worth 
in providing what may be termed setting or atmosphere. Such 
knowledge serves a purpose akin to that of an acquaintance 
with the geography and social customs in the study of the 
career of a Caesar or a Socrates, a Savonarola or a Napoleon. 
A simple way of realizing this is to think of the words, 
Pershing and Hoover, for example. What do they really 
mean? At once we seem to be aware of their significance. 
And why? Clearly, for the reason that we are familiar with 


xi 


INTRODUCTION 


xii 

the conditions under which the work of these men was done. 
Furthermore, we appreciate the results they helped to 
accomplish. And yet, even in the case of men so well known 
and so near our time, we shall soon find ourselves uncertain 
of many details. How much mofe, then, is this true of men 
and women of the time of Adam Bede? How difficult it is to 
put ourselves into the atmosphere of 1799! 

No one will deny, however, that a mere knowledge of facts, 
either of history or of the novel itself, of the author’s life or 
of her times, will stand instead of the spiritual experience 
which the work should afford us vicariously. To appreciate 
in any deep sense we must feel the thrill of joy or the pang of 
pain, think the thoughts and realize the emotional states of 
the characters, as they move through the pages of the book. 

II. The Life of George Eliot 

We know George Eliot’s mode of life and its background 
very well indeed. Our biographical facts are to be found in 
John Walter Cross’s Life of George Eliot. The biographer 
was the novelist’s husband during the last days of her life 
and had been her friend for years. In his book we find a great 
deal of interesting and illuminating matter upon the daily 
thoughts and activities of the author of Adam Bede. Much 
of this is recorded in her own words. We read of her personal 
views of the world of men and events. We learn her professional 
ideals, her moments of alternating enthusiasm and dejec¬ 
tion, her concern for the permanency of her works. 

Many critics have appraised George Eliot’s merits and, 
through their study and insight, have added greatly to our 
knowledge. One of the most penetrating of these critics was 
Leslie Stephen whose volume in the English Men of Letters 
Series is worthy of our attention. 

Besides the formal biography and the critical study should 
be mentioned the large biographical gleanings to be found 
in the novelist’s books themselves. It is generally accepted, 
for example, that Adam Bede closely resembles George 


INTRODUCTION 


xiii 

Eliot’s father, Robert Evans. Mrs. Poyser is believed to have 
been drawn from the novelist’s mother. In The Mill on the 
Floss , too, there are biographical touches and many auto¬ 
biographical as well. It is probable that much of the character 
of George Eliot’s brother entered into the portrayal of the 
boy, Tom Tulliver. Other similar suggestions of living men 
and women may be noted throughout the novels that deal 
with English life. 

Mary Ann Evans, later the George Eliot of literature, was 
born in 1819 in the Midlands of England. It was the region 
which she would one day choose as the background of most 
of her stories. Her father had been a carpenter and builder 
and had gained a reputation for business ability. Her mother 
was an intelligent woman of the middle class. Both father 
and mother seem to have impressed the mind and life of the 
young girl. Upon the death of her mother and the marriage 
of her brother, Mary Ann Evans kept house for her father in 
the small manufacturing town of Coventry. 

Robert Evans, father of the novelist, had strict views in 
religious and political matters. He was a Tory and shared 
sympathetically with his fellow-countrymen in the general 
rejoicing that followed the victories of English arms in 
Napoleonic times. In religion, he remained a churchman in 
communion with the Church of England, declining fellowship 
in the Methodist revolt. 

It was only natural that George Eliot’s intellectual bent 
should be determined, in some measure at least, by her 
father’s bias and by the thought and feeling of the people of 
the quiet countryside she knew so well. Human nature was 
seen in the perspective of early associations. The prejudices 
and social limitations, the simple faith and childlike accept¬ 
ance of inherited conditions on the part of rural folk of an 
earlier day were within her own experience. Not until she 
had arrived at young womanhood did she enlarge her geo¬ 
graphical view. 

Mary Ann Evans received a schooling good for her time 
but not of the highest order. Despite the handicaps of 


xiv 


INTRODUCTION 


environment, she yet had ample opportunities to study and 
reflect. Her inborn keenness of intellect and feeling led her 
into the realm of literature. Spiritual refreshment came from 
reading which was both wide and deep. Her knowledge of 
the classics, especially the Bible, is evident in her books. 
A casual survey of the notes to this edition of Adam Bede will 
reveal the novelist’s indebtedness to the Great Book. A 
study of her style will make clear its foundation in the best 
that English writers have done. At times her debt is obscured 
in subtle word or phrase which presents its original in altered 
garb. The diction and sentence structure of Adam Bede , for 
example, are reminiscent of the English Bible which the 
novelist seems to have known almost by heart. 

Aside from these potent influences of family and early 
surroundings, George Eliot gained much from her early 
associates and, in particular, from a family named Bray 
and from George Henry Lewes, a philosophical writer and 
student of both English and German literature. 

To the Brays the novelist owed the stimulus that comes of 
agreeable conversation. To Lewes she was indebted for the 
tonic effect which is born of intelligent and encouraging 
criticism. Indeed, it was George Henry Lewes who must be 
considered chiefly responsible for George Eliot’s career. Her 
pen-name itself bears witness to this. In Cross’s Life , we 
read: “The reason she fixed on this name was that George 
was Mr. Lewes’s Christian name, and Eliot was a good 
mouth-filling, easily pronounced word.” 

Largely through the influence of the Brays and of Lewes, 
George Eliot’s views underwent a change. Her thoughts upon 
religion and life’s problems were broadened by contacts with 
the thoughts of others. We find the old and the new, the 
limited and the more liberal attitudes illustrated in the 
characters of Adam Bede and Silas Marner, and in fact 
throughout her work. 

George Eliot’s first literary adventure was in association 
with the Westminster Review. She was also engaged with 
translation from the German at about the same period. Then 


INTRODUCTION 


XV 


came her entrance into the field of fiction. Her first volume 
was Scenes of Clerical Life , three stories which had appeared 
separately in Blackwood’s Magazine, during the year 1857. 
All were portraits taken from rural English life as the author 
knew it. 

George Eliot finished Silas Marner in 1861 and departed 
from the home scenes of the Midlands and her contemporaries 
of humble station to write a novel of other times and foreign 
soil. Within two years Romola, a story of Florence during the 
Renaissance, appeared and was hailed by many as a master¬ 
piece. Later on, in Middlemarch , the novelist essayed once 
more the portrayal of familiar landscapes, though with the 
deeper insight that is gained through wider reading and 
reflection. 

In another novel, Daniel Deronda, we have again an 
English background but also the treatment of a great aspira¬ 
tion, the Zionists’ desire for a restored Hebrew state. George 
Eliot was sympathetic toward the Jewish people and ex¬ 
pressed her feelings in her essays and letters as well as in her 
fiction. In a letter addressed to Mrs. Stowe, the author of 
Uncle Tom’s Cabin , she says: “There is nothing I should 
care more to do, if it were possible, than to rouse the imagina¬ 
tion of men and women to a vision of human claims in those 
races of their fellow-men who most differ from them in 
customs and beliefs.” 

In May, 1866, George Eliot finished Felix Holt , Radical. 
The novelist chose the period of the Reform Movement in 
England during the thirties and threw her title character 
against a background of conservatism in the industrial order. 
At Nuneaton, whither she had gone to school, the author had 
seen in her girlhood a riot at election time after the great 
Reform Bill had been passed. Incidents in the story reflect 
this experience. An indication of the novelist’s manner of 
work may be found in her statement to her publisher, John 
Blackwood: “I took a great deal of pains to get a true idea of 
the period. My own recollections of it are childish, and of 
course disjointed, but they help to illuminate my reading. I 


XVI 


INTRODUCTION 


went through the Times of 1832-33 at the British Museum, to 
be sure of as many details as I could/’ 

In the Spanish Gypsy, George Eliot essayed another 
literary form and again went abroad for her theme. The 
poem appeared in 1868. The subject was suggested by a 
picture which the author saw at Venice. “My reflections 
brought me nothing that would serve me except that moment 
in Spanish history when the struggle with the Moors was 
attaining its climax, and when there was the gypsy race 
present under such conditions as would enable me to get my 
heroine and the hereditary claims on her among the gypsies.” 

Besides her novels and poems, George Eliot published in 
1879, the year before her death, a volume of essays with the 
title. Impressions of Theophrastus Such. Her reason for 
writing it may be given in her own words: “There are some 
things in it which I want to get said, and if the book turned 
out to be effective in proportion to my other things, the form 
would lend itself to a ‘second series’—supposing I lived and 
kept my faculties.” A little later she could write: “I have had 
such various letters from time to time, asking me to reprint 
or write essays, that perhaps some of the public will be dis¬ 
appointed that the volume is not a story.” 

Our chief present interest is, of course, in Adam Bede , 
George Eliot’s first important work. As has been said, the 
biographical note is apparent. The novelist herself informs 
us: “The germ of ‘Adam Bede’ was an anecdote told me by 
my Methodist Aunt Samuel (the wife of my father’s younger 
brother), an anecdote from her own experience. We were 
sitting together one afternoon during her visit to me at Griff, 
probably in 1839 or 1840^ when it occurred to her to tell me 
how she had visited a condemned criminal, a very ignorant 
girl, who had murdered her child and refused to confess; 
how she had stayed with her praying through the night, and 
how the poor creature at last broke out into tears, and con¬ 
fessed her crime. My aunt afterwards went with her in the 
cart to the place of execution; and she described to me the 
great respect with which this ministry of hers was regarded 


INTRODUCTION 


XVII 


by the official people about the gaol. The story, told by my 
aunt with great feeling, affected me deeply, and I never lost 
the impression of that afternoon and our talk together; but I 
believe I never mentioned it, through all the intervening years, 
till something prompted me to tell it to George in December 
1856, when I had begun to write ‘Scenes of Clerical Life/ 
He remarked that the scene in the prison would make a fine 
element in a story; and I afterwards began to think of blend¬ 
ing this and some other recollections of my aunt in one story, 
with some points in my father’s ..early life and character. 
The problem of construction that remained was to make 
the unhappy girl one of the chief dramatis personae , and con¬ 
nect her with the hero. At first I thought of making the story 
one of the series of ‘Scenes,’ but afterwards, when several 
motives had induced me to close these with ‘Janet’s Repent¬ 
ance,’ I determined on making what we always called in our 
conversation ‘My Aunt’s Story’ the subject of a long novel, 
which I accordingly began to write on the 22d October 1857.” 

George Eliot had another reason for writing Adam Bede. 
She was at home in the village of Hayslope and its environs. 
Probably, the Hall Farm is reminiscent of the Arbury Farm on 
the Newdigate estate in Warwickshire where the novelist was 
born. Furthermore, despite her strong predilection for books 
and the severe strain of authorship, she was always interested 
in household affairs. In Adam Bede this interest is evident in 
characters, scenes and incidents. 

Always sensitive to her own merits as a novelist, George 
Eliot frequently appraised her work in correspondence with 
friends. Of Adam Bede she wrote: “I love it very much, 
and am deeply thankful to have written it.” Again, to her 
publisher, John Blackwood, she wrote: “Neither you nor I 
ever calculated on half such a success, thinking that the book 
was too quiet, and too unflattering to dominant fashion, ever 
to be very popular. I hope that opinion of ours is a guaranty 
that there is nothing hollow or transient in the reception 
‘Adam’ has met with. Sometimes when I read a book which 
has had a great success, and am unablp to see any valid merits 


XV 111 


INTRODUCTION 


of an artistic kind to account for it, I am visited with a hor¬ 
rible alarm lest ‘Adam/ too, should ultimately sink into the 
same class of outworn admirations. But I always fall back on 
the fact that no shibboleth and no vanity is flattered by it, 
and that there is no novelty of mere form in it which can 
have delighted simply by startling.” 

From a material standpoint the publication of Adam Bede 
was an immediate success. Cross records the following from 
George Eliot’s journal: “October 28—Received from Black¬ 
wood a cheque for £400, the last payment for ‘Adam Bede’ 
in the terms of the agreement. But in consequence of the 
great success, he proposes to pay me £800 more at the begin¬ 
ning of next year.” Critical comments were also very 
favorable and in some instances very generous. A fellow 
novelist, Charles Reade, considered the work “the finest 
thing since Shakespeare,” and George Eliot was naturally 
increasingly pleased. 

As one reads the novels of this remarkable woman one is 
impressed throughout with her intellectual attainments, her 
honesty of purpose and execution, her breadth of sympathy, 
and her keen sense of humor. Even a slight perusal of her 
journal reveals the scope of her interests and studies. Her 
correspondents numbered some of the foremost leaders of 
thought of her generation not only in literature but also in 
science, art, economics, and religion. Americans as well as 
Englishmen honored her and commended her books. With 
the passing of the years since her death in 1880, George 
Eliot’s novels have become more and more assured of a 
permanent place among the best fiction in our tongue. 


NOTE 

The drawing of Adam Bede hy Frank T. Merrill 
is reproduced in this edition by courtesy of The 
Page Company of Boston, 


WHO’S WHO IN ADAM BEDE 


Adam Bede. Carpenter of Hayslope Village on the Donni- 
thorne estate in the agricultural Midlands of England: 
Son of Matthias and Elizabeth Bede. Of Celtic and Saxon 
ancestry. Twenty-five years old at the beginning of the 
story in 1799, thirty-three at its close. 

Seth Bede. Brother of Adam Bede. Carpenter of Hayslope. 
Twenty-two years old at the beginning of the story. 

Arthur Donnithorne. Grandson of Squire Donnithorne and 
heir to the estate. Captain of militia; later, colonel in 
the king’s foreign forces. Twenty-one years old shortly 
after the beginning of the story. Educated at Oxford. 

The Reverend Adolphus Irwine. Rector of the parish of 
Broxton, vicar of Hayslope Village. Clergyman of the 
Church of England. Magistrate. Forty-eight years old. 

Martin Poyser, Jr. Tenant on the Donnithorne estate, at 
the Hall Farm. Uncle of Hester Sorrel. 

Bartholomew Massey. Schoolmaster of Hayslope Village. 
Teacher and friend of Adam Bede. 

Jonathan Burge. Master carpenter of Hayslope. Employer 
of Adam Bede. 

Joshua Rann. Village shoemaker. Head sexton and parish 
clerk. Self-appointed custodian of the dignity of the 
church. Chanter of responses at church services, the 
honor of excellence in which he disputed with the school¬ 
master, Bartholomew Massey. 

Hester Sorrel. Niece of Martin Poyser, Jr. Seventeen 
years old. 

Dinah Morris. Niece of Mrs. Poyser. Methodist preacher. 
Twenty-five years old. 

Elizabeth Bede. Mother of Adam and Seth Bede. Wife of 
Matthias Bede. 

Rachel Poyser. Wife of Martin Poyser, Jr. Aunt of Dinah 
Morris. 


XIX 



ADAM BEDE 


CHAPTER I 

THE WORKSHOP 

With a single drop of ink for a mirror, the °Egyptian sorcerer 
undertakes to reveal to any chance comer far-reaching visions 
of the past. This is what I undertake to do for you, reader. 
With this drop of ink at the end of my pen, I will show you the 
roomy workshop of Mr. °Jonathan Burge, carpenter and build- 5 
er, in the village of °Hayslope, as it appeared on the eight¬ 
eenth of June, in the year of our Lord °i799. 

The afternoon sun was warm on the five workmen there, 
busy upon doors and window-frames and wainscoting. A 
scent of pine-wood from a tent-like pile of planks outside the 10 
open door mingled itself with the scent of the elder-bushes 
which were spreading their summer snow close to the open 
window opposite; the slanting sunbeams shone through the 
transparent shavings that flew before the steady plane, and 
lit up the fine grain of the oak panelling which stood propped 15 
against the wall. On a heap of those soft shavings a rough 
grey shepherd-dog had made himself a pleasant bed, and was 
lying with his nose between his fore-paws, occasionally 
wrinkling his brows to cast a glance at the tallest of the five 
workmen, who Was carving a shield in the centre of a wooden 20 
mantelpiece. It was to this workman that the strong bary¬ 
tone belonged which was heard above the sound of plane and 
hammer singing— 

°“ Awake, my soul, and with the sun 

Thy daily stage of duty run; 25 

Shake off dull sloth ...” 


1 



2 


ADAM BEDE 


Here some measurement was to be taken which required more 
concentrated attention, and the sonorous voice subsided into 
a low whistle; but it presently broke out again with renewed 
vigour— 

s “Let all thy converse be sincere, 

Thy conscience as the noonday clear.” 

Such a voice could only come from a broad chest, and the 
broad chest belonged to a large-boned muscular man nearly 
six feet high, with a back so flat and a head so well poised that 
io when he drew himself up to take a more distant survey of his 
work, he had the air of a soldier standing at ease. The sleeve 
rolled up above the elbow showed an arm that was likely to 
win the prize for feats of strength; yet the long supple hand, 
with its broad finger-tips, looked ready for works of skill. In 
is his tall stalwartness °Adam Bede was a Saxon, and justified 
his name; but the jet-black hair, made the more noticeable 
by its contrast with the light paper cap, and the keen glance 
of the dark eyes that shone from under strongly marked, 
prominent and mobile eyebrows, indicated a mixture of Celtic 
20 blood. The face was large and roughly hewn, and when in 
repose had no other beauty than such as belongs to an expres¬ 
sion of good-humoured honest intelligence. 

It is clear at a glance that the next workman is Adam’s 
brother. He is nearly as tall; he has the same type of features, 
25 the same hue of hair and complexion; but the strength of the 
family likeness seems only to render more conspicuous the 
remarkable difference of expression both in form and face. 
°Seth’s broad shoulders have a slight stoop; his eyes are grey; 
his eyebrows have less prominence and more repose than his 
30 brother’s; and his glance, instead of being keen, is confiding 
and benignant. He has thrown off his paper cap, and you see 
that his hair is not thick and straight, like Adam’s, but thin 
and wavy, allowing you to discern the exact contour of a 
coronal arch that predominates very decidedly over the brow. 
35 The idle tramps always felt sure they could get a copper 
from Seth; they scarcely ever spoke to Adam. 


THE WORKSHOP 


3 


The concert of the tools and Adam’s voice was at last bro¬ 
ken by Seth, who, lifting the door at which he had been working 
intently, placed it against the wall, and said— 

“There! I’ve finished my door to-day, anyhow.” 

The workmen all looked up; Jim Salt, a burly red-haired 5 
man, known as Sandy Jim, paused from his planing, and Adam 
said to Seth, with a sharp glance of surprise— 

°“What! dost think thee’st finished the door?” 

“Ay, sure,” said Seth, with answering surprise; “What’s 
awanting to’t?” 10 

A loud roar of laughter from the other three workmen made 
Seth look round confusedly. Adam did not join in the 
laughter, but there was a slight smile on his face as he said, in 
a gentler tone than before— 

“Why, thee’st forgot the panels.” 15 

The laughter burst out afresh as Seth clapped his hands to 
his head, and coloured over brow and crown. 

“Hooray!” shouted a small lithe fellow, called Wiry Ben, 
running forward and seizing the door. “We’ll hang up th’ 

door at fur end o’ th’ shop an’ write on’t ‘Seth Bede, the 20 

°Methody, his work.’ Here, Jim, Iend’s hould o’ th’ red-pot.” 

“Nonsense!” said Adam. “Let it alone, Ben Cranage. 
You’ll mayhap be making such a slip yourself some day; 
you’ll laugh o’ th’ other side o’ your mouth then. ” 

“Catch me at it, Adam. It’ll be a good while afore my 25 
head’s full o’ th 5 Methodies,” said Ben. 

“Nay, but it’s often full o’ drink, and that’s worse.” 

Ben, however, had now got the “red-pot” in his hand, and 
was about to begin writing his inscription, making, by way of 
preliminary, an imaginary S in the air. 30 

“Let it alone, will you?” Adam called out, laying down his 
tools, striding up to Ben, and seizing his right shoulder. “Let 
it alone, or I’ll shake the soul out o’ your body.” 

Ben shook in Adam’s iron grasp, but, like a plucky small 
man as he was, he didn’t mean to give in. With his left hand 35 
he snatched the brush from his powerless right, and made a 
movement as if he would perform the feat of writing with his 


ADAM BEDE 


4 

left. In a moment Adam turned him round, seized his other 
shoulder, and, pushing him along, pinned him against the 
wall. But now Seth spoke. 

“Let be, Addy, let be. Ben will be joking. Why, he s i the 
5 right to laugh at me—I canna help laughing at myself. ” 

“I shan’t loose him, till he promises to let the door alone,” 
said Adam. . y 

“Come, Ben, lad,” said Seth, in a persuasive tone, “don’t 
let’s have a quarrel about it. You know Adam will have his 
xo way. You may’s well try to turn a waggon in a narrow lane. 
Say you’ll leave the door alone, and make an end on’t.” 

“I binna frighted at Adam,” said Ben, “but I donna mind 
sayin’ as I’ll let’t alone at your askin’, Seth.” 

“Come, that’s wise of you, Ben,” said Adam, laughing 
is and relaxing his grasp. 

They all returned to their work now; but Wiry Ben, having 
had the worst in the bodily contest, was bent on retrieving 
that humiliation by a success in sarcasm. 

“Which was ye thinkin’ on, Seth,” he began—“the pretty 
20parson’s face or her sarmunt, when ye forgot the panels?” 

“Come and hear her, Ben,” said Seth, good-humouredly; 
“she’s going to preach on the Green to-night; happen ye’d 
get something to think on yourself then, instead o’ those 
wicked songs you’re so fond on. Ye might get religion, and 
25 that ’ud be the best day’s earningsy’ ever made.” 

“All i’ good time for that, Seth; I’ll think about that when 
I’m a-goin’ to settle i’ life; bachelors doesn’t want such heavy 
earnins. Happen I shall do the coortin’ an’ the religion both 
together, as ye do, Seth; but ye wouldna ha’ me get converted 
30 an’ chop atween ye an’ the pretty preacher, an’ carry her aff?” 

“No fear o’ that, Ben; she’s neither for you nor for me to 
win, I doubt. Only you come and hear her, and you won’t 
speak lightly on her again.” 

“Well, I’m half a mind t’ ha’ a look at her to-night, if there 
35 isn’t good company at th’ °Holly Bush. What’ll she take for 
her text? Happen ye can tell me, Seth, if so be as I shouldna 
come up i’ time for’t. Wili’t be,—What come ye out for to 


THE WORKSHOP 


5 

see? A prophetess? °Yea, I say unto you, and more than a 
prophetess—a uncommon pretty young woman.” 

“Come, Ben,” said Adam, rather sternly, “you let the 
words o’ the Bible alone; you’re going too far now.” 

“What! are ye a turnin’ roun’, Adam? I thought ye war 
dead again th’ women preachin’, a while agoo?” 

“Nay, I’m not turnin’ noway. I said nought about the 
women preachin’: I said, You let the Bible alone: you’ve got 
a jest-book, han’t you, as you’re rare and proud on? Keep 
your dirty fingers to that.” 

“Why, y’ are gettin’ as big a saint as Seth. Y’ are goin’ 
to th’ preachin’ to-night, I should think. Ye’ll do finely t’ 
lead the singin’. But I don’ know what °Parson Irwine ’ull 
say at his gran’ favright Adam Bede a-turnin’ Methody.” 

“Never do you bother yourself about me, Ben. I’m not 
a-going to turn Methodist any more nor you are—though it’s 
like enough you’ll turn to something worse. Mester Irwine’s 
got more sense nor to meddle wi’ people’s doing as they like 
in religion. That’s between themselves and God, as he’s said 
to me many a time. ” 

“ Ay, ay; but he’s none so fond o’your dissenters, for all that.” 

“Maybe; I’m none so fond o’ Josh Tod’s thick ale, but I 
don’t hinder you from making a fool o’ yourself wi’t.” 

There was a laugh at this thrust of Adam’s, but Seth said, 
very seriously— 

“Nay, nay, Addy, thee mustna say as anybody’s religion’s 
like thick ale. Thee dostna believe but what the dissenters 
and the Methodists have got the root o’ the matter as well as 
the church folks.” 

“Nay, Seth, lad; I’m not for laughing at no man’s religion. 
Let ’em follow their consciences, that’s all. Only I think it 
’ud be better if their consciences ’ud let ’em stay quiet i’ the 
church—there’s a deal to be learnt there. And there’s such a 
thing as being oversperitial; we must have something beside 
Gospel i’ this world. Look at the canals, an’ th’ aqueducs, 
an’ th’ coal-pit engines, and Arkwright’s mills there at Crom- 
ford; a man must learn summat beside Gospel to make them 


5 

10 

IS 

20 

25 

30 

35 


ADAM BEDE 


6 

things, I reckon. Bt t’ hear some o’ them preachers, you’d 
think as a man musbe doing nothing all’s life but shutting s 
eyes and looking wb: s a-going on inside him. I know a man 
must have the love God in his soul, and the Bible s God s 
sword. But what d the Bible say? °Why, it says as God 
put his sperrit into ie workman as built the tabernacle, to 
make him do all the irved work and things as wanted a nice 
hand. And this is ly way o’ looking at it: there’s the sper¬ 
rit o’ God in all tings and all times— weekday as well as 
10 Sunday—and i’ th at works and inventions, and i’ the 
figuring and the m nanics. And God helps us with our 
headpieces and ou: is as well as with our souls; and if 

a man does bits o’ >ut o’ working hours —builds a oven 

for ’s wife to sav ler from going to the bakehouse, or 
15 scrats at his bit o’ gn and makes two potatoes grow istead 
o’ one, he’s doing n good, and he’s just as near to God, 

as if he was runnk er some preacher and a-praying and 

a-groaning. ” 

“Well done, Ada aid Sandy Jim, who had paused from 
20 his planing to Shi iks while Adam was speaking; 

“that’s the best sar i at I’ve heared this long while. By 
th’ same token, m e’s been a-plaguin’ on me to build her 
a oven this twelve t 

“There’s reasor at thee say’st, Adam,” observed 
25 Seth, gravely. “Bi know’st thyself as it’s hearing the 
preachers thee fir 1 much fault with has turned many an 

idle fellow into an trious un. It’s the preacher as emp¬ 
ties th’ alehouse; 2 man gets religion, he’ll do his work 

none the worse for * 

30 “On’y he’ll lave 1 els out o’ th’ doors sometimes, eh, 
Seth?” said Wiry 

“Ah, Ben, you’ 1 joke again’ me as ’ll last you your 
life. But it isna as was i’ fault there; it was Seth 

Bede, as was allay ^-gathering chap, and religion hasna 
35 cured him, the mo the pit, .” 

“Ne’er heed mt said Wiry Ben, “y’ are a down¬ 

right good-heartec , panels or no panels; an’ ye donna 




THE WORKSHOP 


7 


set up your bristles at every bit o’ fun, like some o’ your kin, 
as is mayhap cliverer. ” 

‘‘Seth, lad,” said Adam, taking no notice of the sarcasm 
against himself, “thee mustna take me unkind. I wasna 
driving at thee in what I said just now. Some ’s got one way 5 
o’ looking at things and some’s got another.” 

“Nay, nay, Addy, thee mean’st me no unkindness,” said 
Seth, “ I know that well enough. Thee’t like thy dog Gyp— 
thee bark’st at me sometimes, but thee allays lickst my hand 
after.” 10 

All hands worked on in silence for some minutes, until the 
church clock began to strike six. Before the first stroke had 
died away, Sandy Jim had loosed his plane and was reaching 
his jacket; Wiry Ben had left a screw half driven in, and 
thrown his screwdriver into his tool-basket; Mum Taft, who, 15 
true to his name, had kept silence throughout the previous 
conversation, had flung down his hammer as he was in the act 
of lifting it; and Seth, too, had straightened his back, and was 
putting out his hand towards his paper cap. Adam alone had 
gone on with his work as if nothing had happened. But ob-20 
serving the cessation of the tools, he looked up, and said, in a 
tone of indignation— 

“Look there, now! I can’t abide to see men throw away 
their tools i’ that way, the minute the clock begins to strike, 
as if they took no pleasure i’ their work, and was afraid o’ 25 
doing a stroke too much.” 

Seth looked a little conscious, and began to be slower in his 
preparations forgoing, but Mum Taft broke silence, and said—■ 

“Ay, ay, Adam lad, ye talk like a young un. When y’ are 
six-an’-forty like me, istid o’ six-an’-twenty, ye wonna be so 30 
flush o’ workin’ for nought. ’* 

“Nonsense,” said Adam, still wrathful; “what’s age got 
to do with it, I wonder? Ye arena getting stifF yet, I reckon. 

I hate to see a man’s arms drop down as if he was shot, before 
the clock’s fairly struck, just as if he’d never a bit o’ pride and 35 
delight in’s work. The very grindstone ’ull go on turning a 
bit after you loose it.” 


8 


ADAM BEDE 


“ Bodderation, Adam!” exclaimed Wiry Ben; “lave a 
chap aloon, will ’ee? Ye war a-finding faut wi’ preachers a 
while agoo—y’ are fond enough o’ preachin’ yoursen. Ye may 
like work better nor play, but I like play better nor work; 
that’ll ’commodate ye—it laves ye th’ more to do.” 

With this exit speech, which he considered effective, Wiry 
Ben shouldered his basket and left the workshop, quickly fol¬ 
lowed by Mum Taft and Sandy Jim. Seth lingered, and looked 
wistfully at Adam, as if he expected him to say something. 

“Shalt go home before thee go’st to the preaching?” Adam 
asked, looking up. 

“Nay; I’ve got my hat and things at Will Maskery’s. I 
shan’t be home before going for ten. I’ll happen see Dinah 
Morris safe home, if she’s willing. There’s nobody comes with 
her from Poyser’s, thee know’st. ” 

“Then I’ll tell mother not to look for thee,” said Adam. 

“Thee artna going to Poyser’s thyself to-night?” said 
Seth, rather timidly, as he turned to leave the workshop. 

“Nay, I’m going to th’ school.” 

Hitherto Gyp had kept his comfortable bed, only lifting up 
his head and watching Adam more closely as he noticed the 
other workmen departing. But no sooner did Adam put his 
ruler in his pocket, and begin to twist his apron round his 
waist, than Gyp ran forward and looked up in his master’s 
face with patient expectation. If Gyp had had a tail he would 
doubtless have wagged it, but being destitute of that vehicle 
for emotions, he was like many other worthy personages, des¬ 
tined to appear more phlegmatic than nature had made him. 

“What! art ready for the basket, eh, Gyp?” said Adam, 
with the same gentle modulation of voice as when he spoke to 
Seth. 

Gyp jumped and gave a short bark, as much as to say, “Of 
course.” Poor fellow, he had not a great range of expression. 

The basket was the one which on workdays held Adam’s 
and Seth’s dinner; and no official, walking in procession, 
could look more resolutely unconscious of all acquaintances 
than Gyp with his basket, trotting at his master’s heels. 


THE WORKSHOP 


9 


On leaving the workshop Adam locked the door, took the 
key out, and carried it to the house on the other side of the 
woodyard. It was a low house, with smooth grey thatch and 
buff walls, looking pleasant and mellow in the evening light. 
The leaded windows were bright and speckless, and the door- 5 
stone was as clean as a white boulder at ebb tide. On the 
door-stone stood a clean old woman, in a dark-striped 
linen gown, a red kerchief, and a linen cap, talking to some 
speckled fowls which appeared to have been drawn towards 
her by an illusory expectation of cold potatoes or barley. The 10 
old woman’s sight seemed to be dim, for she did not recognize 
Adam till he said— 

“Here’s the key, Dolly; lay it down for me in the house, 
will you?” 

“Ay, sure; but wunna ye come in, Adam? Miss Mary’s 15 
i’ th’ house, and Mester Burge ’ull be back anon; he’d be glad 
t’ ha’ ye to supper wi’m. I’ll be’s warrand.” 

“No Dolly, thank you; I’m off home. Good evening.” 

Adam hastened with long strides, Gyp close to his heels, out 
of the workyard, and along the highroad leading away from 20 
the village and down to the valley. As he reached the foot of 
the slope, an elderly horseman, with his portmanteau strapped 
behind him, stopped his horse when Adam had passed him, 
and turned round to have another long look at the stalwart 
workman in paper cap, leather breeches, and dark-blue 25 
worsted stockings. 

Adam, unconscious of the admiration he was exciting, 
presently struck across the fields, and now broke out into the 
tune which had all day long been running in his head:— 

“ Let all thy converse be sincere, 3° 

Thy conscience as the noonday clear; 

For God’s all-seeing eye surveys 

Thy secret thoughts, thy works and ways.” 


CHAPTER II 


The preaching 

About a quarter to seven there was an unusual appearance 
of excitement in the village of Hayslope, and through the 
whole length of its little street, from the °Donnithorne Arms 
to the churchyard gate, the inhabitants had evidently been 
5 drawn out of their houses by something more than the pleas¬ 
ure of lounging in the evening sunshine. The Donnithorne 
Arms stood at the entrance of the village, and a small farm¬ 
yard and stackyard which flanked it, indicating that therawas 
a pretty °take of land attached to the inn, gave the traveller a 
io promise of good feed for himself and his horse, which might 
well console him for the ignorance in which the weather-beaten 
sign left him as to the °heraldic bearings of that ancient family, 
the Donnithornes. Mr. Casson, the landlord, had been for 
some time standing at the door with his hands in his pockets, 
15 balancing himself on his heels and toes, and looking towards 
a piece of unenclosed ground, with a maple in the middle 
of it, which he knew to be the destination of certain grave¬ 
looking men and women whom he had observed passing at 
intervals. 

20 Mr. Casson’s person was by no means of that common type 
which can be allowed to pass without description. On a front 
view it appeared to consist principally of two spheres, bearing 
about the same relation to each other as the earth and the 
moon: that is to say, the lower sphere might be said, at a 
25 rough guess, to be thirteen times larger than the upper, which 
naturally performed the function of a mere satellite and 
tributary. But here the resemblance ceased, for Mr. Casson’s 
head was not at all a melancholy-looking satellite, nor was it a 
“spotty globe,” as Milton has irreverently called the moon; 


io 


THE PREACHING 


ii 


on the contrary, no head and face could look more sleek 
and healthy, and its expression, which was chiefly con¬ 
fined to a pair of round and ruddy cheeks, the slight knot and 
interruptions forming the nose and eyes being scarcely worth 
mention, was one of jolly contentment, only tempered by that 5 
sense of personal dignity which usually made itself felt in his 
attitude and bearing. This sense of dignity could hardly be 
considered excessive in a man who had been butler to “the 
family” for fifteen years, and who, in his present high posi¬ 
tion, was necessarily very much in contact with his inferiors. 10 
How to reconcile his dignity with the satisfaction of his 
curiosity by walking towards the Green, was the problem that 
Mr. Casson had been revolving in his mind for the last five 
minutes; but when he had partly solved it by taking his hands 
out of his pockets, and thrusting them into the armholes of his 15 
waistcoat, by throwing his head on one side, and providing 
himself with an air of contemptuous indifference to whatever 
might fall under his notice, his thoughts were diverted by the 
approach of the horseman whom we lately saw pausing to have 
another look at our friend Adam, and who now pulled up at 20 
the door of the Donnithorne Arms. 

“Take off the bridle and give him a drink, ostler,” said the 
traveller to the lad in a smock-frock, who had come out of the 
yard at the sound of the horse’s hoofs. 

“Why, what’s up in your pretty village, landlord?” he 25 
continued, getting down. “There seems to be quite a stir.” 

“It’s a Methodis preaching, sir; it’s been gev hout as a 
young woman’s a-going to preach on the Green,” answered 
Mr. Casson, in a treble and wheezy voice, with a slightly 
mincing accent. “Will you please to step in, sir, an’ tek 3 o 
somethink?” 

“ No, I must be getting on to Rosseter. I only want a drink 
for my horse. And what does your parson say, I wonder, to 
a young woman preaching just under his nose?” 

“ Parson Irwine, sir, doesn’t live here; he lives at Brox’on, 35 
over the hill there. The parsonage here’s a tumble-down 
place, sir, not fit for gentry to live in. He comes here to 


12 


ADAM BEDE 


preach of a Sunday afternoon, sir, an’ puts up his hoss here. 
It’s a grey cob, sir, an’ he sets great store by’t. He’s allays 
put up his hoss here, sir, iver since before I hed the Donni- 
thorne Arms. I’m not this countryman, you may tell by my 
s tongue, sir. They’re cur’ous talkers i’ this country, sir; the 
gentry’s hard work to hunderstand ’em. I was brought hup 
among the gentry, sir, an’ got the turn o’ their tongue when I 
was a bye. Why, what do you think the folks here says for 
‘hevn’t you?’—the gentry, you know, says, ‘hevn’t you’— 
io well, the people about here says ‘hanna yey.’ It’s what they 
call the dileck as is spoke hereabout, sir. That’s what I’ve 
heared °Squire Donnithorne say rriany a time; it’s the dileck, 
says he.” 

“Ay, ay,” said the stranger, smiling. “I know it very well, 
is But you’ve not got many Methodists about here, surely— 
in this agricultural spot? I should have thought there would 
hardly be such a thing as a Methodist to be found about here. 
You’re all farmers, aren’t you? The Methodists can seldom 
lay much hold on them.” 

20 “Why, sir, there’s a pretty lot o’ workmen round about, 
sir. There’s Mester Burge as owns the timber-yard over 
there, he underteks a good bit o’ building an’ repairs. An’ 
there’s the stone-pits not far off. There’s plenty of emply i’ 
this country-side, sir. An’ there’s a fine batch o’ Methodisses 
2s at Treddles’on—that’s the market-town about three mile off— 
you’ll maybe ha’ come through it, sir.. There’s pretty nigh a 
score of ’em on the Green now, as come from there. That’s 
where our people gets it from, though there’s only two men of 
’em in all Hayslope: that’s Will Maskery, the wheelwright, 
30 and Seth Bede, a young man as works at the carpenterin’.” 

“The preacher comes from Treddleston, then, does she?” 

“Nay, sir, she comes out o’ Stonyshire, pretty nigh thirty 
mile off. But she’s a-visitin’ hereabout at Mester Poyser’s 
at the Hall Farm—it’s them barns an’ big walnut-trees, right 
35 away to the left, sir. She’s own niece to Poyser’s wife, an’ 
they’ll be fine an’ vexed at her for making a fool of herself i’ 
that way. But I’ve heared as there’s no holding these 


THE PREACHING 


13 


Methodisses when the maggit’s once got i’ their head: many 
of ’em goes stark starin’ mad wi’ their religion. Though this 
young woman’s quiet enough to look at, by what I can make 
out; I’ve not seen her myself.” 

“Well, I wish I had time to wait and see her, but I must get 
on. I’ve been out of my way for the last twenty minutes, to 
have a look at that place in the valley. It’s Squire Don- 
nithorne’s, I suppose?” 

“Yes, sir, that’s Donnithorne Chase, that is. Fine hoaks 
there, isn’t there, sir? I should know what it is, sir, for I’ve 
lived butler there a-going i’ fifteen year. It’s Captain Don¬ 
nithorne as is th’ heir, sir—Squire Donnithorne’s grandson. 
He’ll be cornin’ of hage this ’ay-’arvest, sir, an’ we shall hev 
fine doin’s. He owns all the land about here, sir, Squire Don¬ 
nithorne does.” 

“Well, it’s a pretty spot, whoever may own it,” said the 
traveller, mounting his horse; “and one meets some fine 
strapping fellows about too. I met as fine a young fellow 
as ever I saw in my life, about half an hour ago, before I came 
up the hill—a carpenter, a tall broad-shouldered fellow with 
black hair and black eyes, marching along like a soldier. We 
want such fellows as he to lick the French.” 

“Ay, sir, that’s Adam Bede, that is, I’ll be bound—Thias 
Bede’s son—everybody knows him hereabout. He’s an un¬ 
common clever stiddy fellow, an’ wonderful strong. Lord 
bless you, sir—if you’ll hexcuse me for saying so—he can walk 
forty mile a-day, an’ lift a matter o’ sixty ston’. He’s an un¬ 
common favourite wi’ the gentry, sir: Captain Donnithorne 
and Parson Irwine meks a fine fuss wi’ him. But he’s a little 
lifted up an’ peppery-like.” 

“Well, good evening to you, landlord; I must get on.” 

“Your servant, sir; good evenin’.” 

The traveller put his horse into a quick walk up the village, 
but when he approached the Green, the beauty of the view 
that lay on his right hand, the singular contrast presented by 
the groups of villages with the knot of Methodists near the 
maple, and perhaps yet more, curiosity to see the young 


5 

13 

15 

20 

25 

30 

'35 


14 


ADAM BEDE 


female preacher, proved too much for his anxiety to get to the 
end of his journey, and he paused. 

The Green lay at the extremity of the village, and from it 
the road branched off in two directions, one leading farther up 
s the hill by the church, and the other winding gently down 
towards the valley. On the side of the Green that led 
towards the church, the broken line of thatched cottages was 
continued nearly to the churchyard gate; but on the opposite, 
north-western side, there was nothing to obstruct the view of 
io gently-swelling meadow, and wooded valley, and dark masses 
of distant hill. That rich undulating district of Loamshire to 
which Hayslope belonged, lies close to a grim outskirt of 
Stonyshire, overlooked by its barren hills as a pretty blooming 
sister may sometimes be seen linked in the arm of a rugged, 
15 tall, swarthy brother; and in two or three hours’ ride the trav¬ 
eller might exchange a bleak treeless region, intersected by 
lines of cold grey stone, for one where his road wound under 
the shelter of woods, or up swelling hills, muffled with hedge¬ 
rows and long meadow-grass and thick corn; and where at 
20 every turn he came upon some fine old country-seat nestled 
in the valley or crowning the slope, some homestead with its 
long length of barn and its cluster of golden ricks, some grey 
steeple looking out from a pretty confusion of trees and thatch 
and dark-red tiles. It was just such a picture as this last that 
25 Hayslope Church had made to the traveller as he began to 
mount the gentle slope leading to its pleasant uplands, and 
now from his station near the Green he had before him in one 
view nearly all the other typical features of this pleasant land. 
High up against the horizon were the huge conical masses of 
30 hill, like giant mounds intended to fortify this region of corn 
and grass against the keen and hungry winds of the north; not 
distant enough to be clothed in purple mystery, but with 
sombre greenish sides visibly specked with sheep, whose 
motion was only revealed by memory, not detected by sight; 
35 wooed from day to day by the changing hours, but responding 
with no change in themselves—left for ever grim and sullen 
after the flush of morning, the winged gleams of the April 


THE PREACHING 


15 


noonday, the parting crimson glory of the ripening summer 
sun. And directly below them the eye rested on a more ad¬ 
vanced line of hanging woods, divided by bright patches of 
pasture or furrowed crops, and not yet deepened into the 
uniform leafy curtains of high summer, but still showing the 5 
warm tints of the young oak and the tender green of the ash 
and lime. Then came the valley, where the woods grew 
thicker, as if they had rolled down and hurried together from 
the patches left smooth on the slope, that they might take the 
better care of the tall mansion which lifted its parapets and 10 
sent its faint blue summer smoke among them. Doubtless 
there was a large sweep of park and a broad glassy pool in 
front of that mansion, but the swelling slope of meadow would 
not let our traveller see them from the village green. He saw 
instead a foreground which was just as lovely—the level sun-15 
light lying like transparent gold among the gently-curving 
stems of the feathered grass and the tall red sorrel, and the 
white umbels of the hemlocks lining the bushy hedgerows. It 
was that moment in summer when the sound of the scythe 
being whetted makes us cast more lingering looks at the 20 
flower-sprinkled tresses of the meadows. 

He might have seen other beauties in the landscape if he had 
turned a little in his saddle and looked eastward, beyond 
Jonathan Burge’s pasture and woodyard towards the green 
corn-fields and walnut-trees of the Hall Farm; but apparently 25 
there was more interest for him in the living groups close at 
hand. Every generation in the village was there, from old 
“Feyther Taft” in his brown worsted nightcap, who was bent 
nearly double, but seemed tough enough to keep on his legs a 
long while, leaning on his short stick, down to the babies with 30 
their little round heads lolling forward in quilted linen caps. 
Now and then there was a new arrival; perhaps a slouching 
labourer, who, having eaten his supper, came out to look at the, 
unusual scene with a slow bovine gaze, willing to hear what 
any one had to say in explanation of it, but by no nleans ex-35 
cited enough to ask a question. But all took care not to join 
the Methodists on the Green, and identify themselves in that 


16 


ADAM BEDE 


way with the expectant audience, for there was not one of 
them that would not have disclaimed the imputation of having 
come out to hear the “ preacher-woman, ”—they had only come 
out to see “what war a-goin’ on, like.” The men were chiefly 
s gathered in the neighbourhood of the blacksmith’s shop. But 
do not imagine them gathered in a knot. Villagers never 
swarm: a whisper is unknown among them, and they seem 
almost as incapable of an undertone as a cow or a stag. Your 
true rustic turns his back on his interlocutor, throwing a 
io question over his shoulder as if he meant to run away from 
the answer, and walking a step or two farther off when the 
interest of the dialogue culminates. So the group in the 
vicinity of the blacksmith’s door was by no means a close one, 
and formed no screen in front of Chad Cranage, the black- 
15 smith himself, who stood with his black brawny arms folded, 
leaning against the door-post, and occasionally sending forth 
a bellowing laugh at his own jokes, giving them a marked 
preference over the sarcasms of Wiry Ben, who had renounced 
the pleasures of the Holly Bush for the sake of seeing life 
20 under a new form. But both styles of wit were treated with 
equal contempt by Mr. Joshua Rann. Mr. Rann’s leathern 
apron and subdued griminess can leave no one in any doubt 
that he is the village shoemaker; the thrusting out of his chin 
and stomach, and the twirling of his thumbs, are more subtle 
25 indications, intended to prepare unwary strangers for the dis¬ 
covery that they are in the presence of the parish clerk. “Old 
Joshway,” as he is irreverently called by his neighbours, is in 
a state of simmering indignation; but he has not yet opened 
his lips except to say, in a resounding bass undertone, like the 
30 tuning of a violoncello, °“Sehon, King of the Amorites: for 
His mercy endureth for ever; and Og the King of Basan: for 
His mercy endureth for ever,”—a quotation which may seem 
to have slight bearing on the present occasion, but, as with 
every other anomaly, adequate knowledge will show it to be a 
35 natural ^sequence. Mr. Rann was inwardly maintaining the 
°dignity of the Church in the face of this scandalous irruption 
of Methodism, and as that dignity was bound up with his own 


THE PREACHING 


17 


sonorous utterance of the responses, his argument naturally 
suggested a quotation from the psalm he had read the last 
Sunday afternoon. 

The stronger curiosity of the women had drawn them quite 
to the edge of the Green, where they could examine more 5 
closely the °Quaker-like costume and odd deportment of the 
female Methodists. Underneath the maple there was a small 
cart which had been brought from the wheelwright’s to serve 
as a pulpit, and round this a couple of benches and a few 
chairs had been placed. Some of the Methodists were resting 10 
on these, with their eyes closed, as if wrapt in prayer or medi¬ 
tation. Others chose to continue standing, and had turned 
their faces towards the villagers with a look of melancholy 
compassion, which was highly amusing to Bessy Cranage, the 
blacksmith’s buxom daughter, known to her neighbours as 15 
Chad’s Bess, who wondered “why the folks war a-makin’ 
faces a that’ns.” Chad’s Bess was the object of peculiar 
compassion, because her hair, being turned back under a cap 
which was set at the top of her head, exposed to view an 
ornament of which she was much prouder than of her red 20 
cheeks—namely, a pair of large round ear-rings with false 
garnets in them, ornaments condemned not only by the 
Methodists, but by her own cousin and namesake Timothy’s 
Bess, who, with much cousinly feeling, often wished “them 
ear-rings” might come to good. 25 

Timothy’s Bess, though retaining her maiden appellation 
among her familiars, had long been the wife of Sandy Jim, and 
possessed a handsome set of matronly jewels, of which it is 
enough to mention the heavy baby she was rocking in her 
arms, and the sturdy fellow of five in knee-breeches, and red 30 
legs, who had a rusty milk-can round his neck by way of drum, 
and was very carefully avoided by Chad’s small terrier. This 
young olive-branch, notorious under the name of Timothy’s 
Bess’s Ben, being of an inquiring disposition, unchecked by 
any false modesty, had advanced beyond the group of women 35 
and children, and was walking round the Methodists, looking 
up in their faces with his mouth wide open, and beating his 


i8 


ADAM BEDE 


stick against the milk-can by way of musical accompaniment. 
But one of the elderly women bending down to take him by 
the shoulder, with an air of grave remonstrance, Timothy’s 
Bess’s Ben first kicked out vigorously, then took to his heels 
s and sought refuge behind his father’s legs. 

“Ye gallows young dog,” said Sandy Jim, with some pater¬ 
nal pride, “If ye donna keep that stick quiet, I’ll tek it from 
ye. What d’ye mane by kickin’ foulks?” 

“Here! gie him here to me, Jim,” said Chad Cranage; 
io “I’ll tie him up an’ shoe him as I do th’ hosses. Well, Mester 
Casson,” he continued, as that personage sauntered up to¬ 
wards the group of men, “how are ye t’ naight? Are ye coom 
t’ help groon? They say folks allays groon when they’r 
hearkenin’ to th’ Methodys, as if they war bad i’ th’ inside, 
is I mane to groon as loud as your cow did th’ other naight, an* 
then the praicher ’ull think I’m i’ th’ raight way.” 

“I’d advise you not to be up to no nonsense, Chad,” said 
Mr. Casson, with some dignity; “Poyser wouldn’t like to 
hear as his wife’s niece was treated any ways disrespect- 
20 ful, for all he mayn’t be fond of her taking on herself to 
preach.” 

“Ay, an’ she’s a pleasant-looked un too,” said Wiry Ben. 
“I’ll stick up for the pretty women preachin’; I know they’d 
persuade me over a deal sooner nor th’ ugly men. I shouldna 
25 wonder if I turn Methody afore the night’s out, an’ begin to 
coort the preacher, like Seth Bede.” 

“Why, Seth’s looking rether too high, I should think,” said 
Mr. Casson. “This woman’s kin wouldn’t like her to demean 
herself to a common carpenter.” 

30 “Tchu!” said Ben, with a long treble intonation, “what’s 
folks’s kin got to do wi’t?—Not a chip. Poyser’s wife may 
turn her nose up an’ forget bygones, but this Dinah Morris, 
they tell me, ’s as poor as iver she was—works at a mill, an 
’s much ado to keep hersen. A strappin’ young carpenter as 
35 is a ready-made Methody, like Seth, wouldna be a bad match 
for her. Why, Poysers make as big a fuss wi’ Adam Bede as 
if he war a nevvy o’ their own. ” 


THE PREACHING 


19 


“Idle talk! idle talk!” said Mr. Joshua Rann. “Adam an’ 
Seth’s two men; you wunna fit them two wi’ the same last.” 

“Maybe,” said Wiry Ben, contemptuously, “but Seth’s 
the lad for me, though he w^ar a Methody twice o’er. I’m 
fair beat wi’ Seth, for I’ve been teasin’ him iver sin’ we’ve 5 
been workin’ together, an’ he bears me no more malice nor a 
lamb. An’ he’s a stout-hearted feller too, for when we saw the 
old tree all a-fire a-comin across the fields one night, an’ we 
thought as it war a boguy, Seth made no more ado, but he up 
to’t as bold as a constable. Why, there he comes out o’ Will 10 
Maskery’s; an’ there’s Will hisself, lookin’ as meek as if he 
couldna knock a nail o’ the head for fear o’ hurtin’t. An’ 
there’s the pretty preacher-woman! My eye, she’s got her 
bonnet off. I mun go a bit nearer. ” 

Several of the men followed Ben’s lead, and the traveller 15 
pushed his horse on to the Green, as °Dinah walked rather 
quickly, and in advance of her companions, towards the cart 
under the maple-tree. While she was near Seth’s tali figure, 
she looked short, but when she had mounted the cart, and was 
away from all comparison, she seemed above the middle height 20 
of a woman, though in reality she did not exceed it — an effect 
which was due to the slimness of her figure, and the simple 
line of her black stuff dress. The stranger was struck with 
surprise as he saw her approach and mount the cart—sur¬ 
prise, not so much at the feminine delicacy of her appearance, 25 
as at the total absence of self-consciousness in her demeanour. 
He had made up his mind to see her advance with a measured 
step, and a demure solemnity of countenance; he had felt sure 
that her face would be mantled with the smile of conscious 
saintship, or else charged with denunciatory bitterness. He 30 
knew but two types of Methodist—the ecstatic and the bilious. 
But Dinah walked as simply as if she were going to market, 
and seemed as unconscious of her outward appearance as a 
little boy: there was no blush, no tremulousness, which said, 

“ I know you think me a pretty woman, too young to preach;” 35 
no casting up or down of the eyelids, no compression of the 
lips, no attitude of the arms, that said, “ But you must think 


20 


ADAM BEDE 


of me as a saint.” She held no book in her ungloved hands, 
but let them hang down lightly crossed before her, as she stood 
and turned her grey eyes on the people. There was no keen¬ 
ness in the eyes; they seemed rather to be shedding love than 
s making observations; they had the liquid look which tells 
that the mind is full of what it has to give out, rather than 
impressed by external objects. She stood with her left hand 
towards the descending sun, and leafy boughs screened her 
from its rays; but in this sober light the delicate colouring of 
ioher face seemed to gather a calm vividness, like flowers at 
evening. It was a small oval face, of a uniform transparent 
whiteness, with an egg-like line of cheek and chin, a full but 
firm mouth, a delicate nostril, and a low perpendicular brow, 
surmounted by a rising arch of parting between smooth 
is locks of pale reddish hair. The hair was drawn straight back 
behind the ears, and covered, except for an inch or two, above 
the brow, by a net Quaker cap. The eyebrows, of the same 
colour as the hair, were perfectly horizontal and firmly pen¬ 
cilled; the eyelashes, though no darker, were long and abund- 
20 ant; nothing was left blurred or unfinished. It was one of 
those faces that make one think of white flowers with light 
touches of colour on their pure petals. The eyes had no 
peculiar beauty, beyond that of expression; they looked so 
simple, so candid, so gravely loving, that no accusing scowl, 
25 no light sneer could help melting away before their glance. 
Joshua Rann gave a long cough, as if he were clearing his 
throat in order to come to a new understanding with himself; 
Chad Cranage lifted up his leather skull-cap and scratched his 
head; and Wiry Ben wondered how Seth had the pluck to 
30 think of courting her. 

“A sweet woman,” the stranger said to himself, “but surely 
nature never meant her for a preacher.” 

Perhaps he was one of those who think that nature has 
theatrical properties, and, with the considerate view of facili- 
35 tating art and psychology, “makes up” her characters, so that 
there may be no mistake about them. But Dinah began to 
speak. 


THE PREACHING 


21 


“Dear friends,” she said, in a clear but not loud voice, 
“let us pray for a blessing.” 

She closed her eyes, and hanging her head down a little, 
continued in the same moderate tone, as if speaking to some 
one quite near her:— j 

°“Saviour of sinners! when a poor woman, laden with sins, 
went out to the well to draw water, she found Thee sitting at 
the well. She knew Thee not; she had not sought Thee; her 
mind was dark; her life was unholy. But thou didst speak to 
her, Thou didst teach her, Thou didst show her that her life io 
lay open before Thee, and yet Thou wast ready to give her 
that blessing which she had never sought. Jesus, Thou art 
in the midst of us, and Thou knowest all men: if there is any 
here like that poor woman—if their minds are dark, their lives 
unholy—if they have come out not seeking Thee, not desiring 15 
to be taught; deal with them according to the free mercy 
which Thou didst show to her. Speak to them, Lord; open 
their ears to my message; bring their sins to their minds, and 
make them thirst for that salvation which Thou art ready to 
give. . 20 

“Lord, Thou art with Thy people still: they see Thee in 
the night-watches, and their hearts burn within them as 
Thou talkest with them by the way. And Thou art near to 
those who have not known Thee: open their eyes that they 
may see Thee—see Thee weeping over them, and saying 25 
°‘Ye will not come unto me that ye might have life’—see Thee 
hanging on the cross and saying, °‘Father, forgive them, for 
they know not what they do’—see Thee as °Thou wilt come 
again in Thy glory to judge them at the last. Amen.” 

Dinah opened her eyes again and paused, looking at the 30 
group of villagers, who were now gathered rather more closely 
on her right hand. 

“Dear friends,” she began, raising her voice a little, “you 
have all of you been to church, and I think you must have 
heard the clergyman read these words: °‘The Spirit of the 33 
Lord is upon me, because he hath anointed me °to preach the 
gospel to the poor.’ Jesus Christ spoke those words—he said 


22 


ADAM BEDE 

he came to preach the Gospel to the poor: I don t know whether 
you ever thought about those words much; but I will tell 
you when I remember first hearing them. It was on just such 
a sort of evening as this, when I was a little girl, and my aunt 
5 as brought me up, took me to hear a good man preach out of 
doors, just as we are here. I remember his face well: he was a 
very old man, and had very long white hair; his voice was very 
soft and beautiful, not like any voice I had ever heard before. 
I was a little girl, and scarcely knew anything, and this old 
IO ' man seemed to me such a different sort of a man from anybody 
I had ever seen before, that I thought he had perhaps come 
down from the sky to preach to us, and I said, ‘Aunt, will he 
go back to the sky to-night, like the picture in the Bible?’ 

“That man of God was °Mr. Wesley, who spent his life m 
is doing what our blessed Lord did—preaching the Gospel to the 
poor __ an d he entered into his rest eight years ago. I came 
to know more about him years after, but I was a foolish 
thoughtless child then, and I remembered only one thing he 
told us in his sermon. He told us as ‘Gospel’ meant ‘good 
20 news.’ The Gospel, you know, is what the Bible tells us about 
God. 

“Think of that now! Jesus Christ did really come down 
from heaven, as I, like a silly child, thought Mr. Wesley did; 
and what he came down for, was to tell good news about God 
25 to the poor. Why, you and me, dear friends, are poor. We 
have been brought up in poor cottages, and have been reared 
on oat-cake, and lived coarse; and we haven’t been to school 
much, nor read books, and we don’t know much about any¬ 
thing but what happens just round us. We are just the sort of 
3 o people that want to hear good news. For when anybody’s well 
off, they don’t much mind about hearing news from distant 
parts; but if a poor man or woman’s in trouble and has hard 
work to make out a living, they like to have a letter to tell ’em 
they’ve got a friend as will hek> ’em. To be sure, we can’t 
35 help knowing something about God, even if we’ve never heard 
the Gospel, the good news that our Saviour brought us. For 
we know everything comes from God: don’t you say almost 


THE PREACHING 


23 


every day, ‘This and that will happen, please God;’ and 
‘We shall begin to cut the grass soon, please God to send us a 
little more sunshine’? We know very well we are altogether 
in the hands of God: we didn’t bring ourselves into the world, 
we can’t keep ourselves alive while we’re sleeping; the day- 5 
light, and the wind, and the corn, and the cows to give us 
milk—everything we have comes from God. And he gave us 
our souls, and put love between parents and children, and 
husband and wife. But is that as much as we want to know 
about God? We see he is great and mighty, and can do what 10 
he will: we are lost, as if we was struggling in great waters, 
when we try to think of him. 

“But perhaps doubts come into your mind like this: Can 
God take much notice of us poor people? Perhaps he only 
made the world for the great and the wise and the rich. It 15 
doesn’t cost him much to give us our little handful of victual 
and bit of clothing; but how do we know he cares for us any 
more than we care for the worms and things in the garden, so 
as we rear our carrots and onions ? Will God take carp of us 
when we die? and has he any comfort for us when we are lame 20 
and sick and helpless? Perhaps, too, he is angry with us; else 
why does the blight come, and the bad harvests, and the fever, 
and all sorts of pain and trouble? For our life is full of trouble, 
and if God sends us good, he seems to send bad too. How is it ? 
how is it ? 25 

“Ah! dear friends, we are in sad want of good news about 
God; and what does other good news signify if we haven’t 
that? For everything else comes to an end, and when we die 
we leave it all. But God lasts when everything else is gone. 
What shall we do if he is not our friend?” 30 

Then Dinah told how the good news had been brought, and 
how the mind of God towards the poor had been made mani¬ 
fest in the life of Jesus, dwelling on its lowliness and its acts 
of mercy. 

“So you see, dear friends,” she went on, “Jesus spent his 35 
time almost all in doing good to poor people; he preached out 
of doors to them, and he made friends of poor workmen, and 


24 


ADAM BEDE 


taught them and took pains with them. Not but what he did 
good to the rich too, for he was full of love to all men, only he 
saw as the poor were more in want of his help. °So he cured 
the lame and the sick and the blind, and he worked miracles, 
s to feed the hungry, because, he said, he was sorry for them; 
and he was very kind to the little children, and comforted 
those who had lost their friends: and he spoke very tenderly 
to poor sinners that were sorry for their sins. 

“Ah! wouldn’t you love such a man if you saw him—if he 
iowas here in this village? What a kind heart he must have! 
What a friend he would be to go to in trouble! How pleasant 
it must be to be taught by him. 

“Well, dear friends, who was this man? Was he only a 
good man—a very good man, and no more—like our dear 
15 Mr. Wesley, who has been taken from us? . . . He was the 
Son of God—°‘in the image of the Father,’ the Bible says; 
that means, just like God, who is the beginning and end of all 
things—the God we want to know about. So then, all the 
love that Jesus showed to the poor is the same love that God 
20 has for us. We can understand what Jesus felt, because he 
came in a body like ours, and spoke words such as we speak 
to each other. We were afraid to think what God was before 
—the God who made the world and the sky and the thunder 
and lightning. We could never see him; we could only see 
25 the things he had made; and some of these things was very 
terrible, so as we might well tremble when we thought of him. 
But our blessed Saviour has showed us what God is in a way 
us poor ignorant people can understand; he has showed us 
what God’s heart is, what are his feelings towards us. 

30 “But let us see a little more about what Jesus came on 
earth for. Another time he said, °‘ I came to seek and to save 
that which was lost;’ and another time, °‘ I came not to call the 
righteous but sinners to repentance.’ 

“The lost! . . . Sinners! . . .Ah! dear friends, does 
35 that mean you and me?” 

Hitherto the traveller had been chained to the spot against 
his will by the charm of Dinah’s mellow treble tones, which 


THE PREACHING 


25 


had a variety of modulation like that of a fine instrument 
touched with the unconscious skill of musical instinct. The 
simple things she said seemed like novelties, as a melody 
strikes us with a new feeling when we hear it sung by the pure 
voice of a boyish chorister; the quiet depth of conviction with 5 
which she spoke seemed in itself an evidence for the truth of 
her message. He saw that she had thoroughly arrested her 
hearers. The villagers had pressed nearer to her, and there 
was no longer anything but grave attention on all faces. She 
spoke slowly, though quite fluently, often pausing after a 10 
question, or before any transition of ideas. There was no 
change of attitude, no gesture; the effect of her speech was 
produced entirely by the inflections of her voice, and when she 
came to the question, ‘‘Will God take care of us when we die?” 
she uttered it in such a tone of plaintive appeal that the tears 15 
came into some of the hardest eyes. The stranger had ceased 
to doubt, as he had done at the first glance, that she could fix 
the attention of her rougher hearers, but still he wondered 
whether she could have that power of rousing their more 
violent emotions, which must surely be a necessary seal of her 20 
vocation as a Methodist preacher, until she came to the words, 
“Lost!—Sinners!” when there was a great change in her voice 
and manner. She had made a long pause before the exclama¬ 
tion, and the pause seemed to be filled by agitating thoughts 
that showed themselves in her features. Her pale face be- 25 
came paler; the circles under her eyes deepened, as they do 
when tears half gather without falling; and the mild loving 
eyes took an expression of appalled pity, as if she had sud¬ 
denly discerned a destroying angel hovering over the heads of 
the people. Her voice became deep and muffled, but there 30 
was still no gesture. Nothing could be less like the ordinary 
type of the Ranter than Dinah. She was not preaching as 
she heard others preach, but speaking directly from her 
own emotions, and under the inspiration of her own simple 
faith. . # 35 

But now she had entered into a new current of feeling. Her 
manner became less calm, her utterance more rapid and 


26 


ADAM BEDE 


agitated, as she tried to bring home to the people their guilt, 
their wilful darkness, their state of disobedience to God—as 
she dwelt on the hatefulness of sin, the Divine holiness, and 
the sufferings of the Saviour, by which a way had been opened 
s for their salvation. At last it seemed as if, in her yearning 
desire to reclaim the lost sheep, she could not be satisfied by 
addressing her hearers as a body. She appealed first to one 
and then to another, beseeching them with tears to turn to 
God while there was yet time; painting to them the desola- 
io tion of their souls, lost in sin, feeding on the husks of this 
miserable world, far away from God their Father; and then 
the love of the Saviour, who was waiting and watching for 
their return. 

There was many a responsive sigh and groan from her 
15 fellow-Methodists, but the village mind does not easily take 
fire, and a little smouldering vague anxiety, that might easily 
die out again, was the utmost effect Dinah’s preaching had 
wrought in them at present. Yet no one had retired, except 
the children and “old Feyther Taft,” who being too deaf to 
20 catch many words, had some time ago gone back to his ingle- 
nook. Wiry Ben was feeling very uncomfortable, and almost 
wishing he had not come to hear Dinah; he thought what she 
said would haunt him somehow. Yet he couldn’t help liking 
to look at her and listen to her, though he dreaded every 
25 moment that she would fix her eyes on him, and address him 
in particular. She had already addressed Sandy Jim, who was 
now holding the baby to relieve his wife, and the big soft¬ 
hearted man had rubbed away some tears with his fist, with a 
confused intention of being a better fellow, going less to the 
30 Holly Bush down by the °Stone-pits, and cleaning himself 
more regularly of a Sunday. 

In front of Sandy Jim stood Chad’s Bess, who had shown 
an unwonted quietude and fixity of attention ever since Dinah 
had begun to speak. Not that the matter of the discourse had 
35 arrested her at once, for she was lost in a puzzling speculation 
as to what pleasure and satisfaction there could be in life to a 
young woman who wore a cap like Dinah’s. Giving up this 


THE PREACHING 


27 


inquiry in despair, she took to studying Dinah’s nose, eyes, 
mouth, and hair, and wondering whether it was better to have 
such a sort of pale face as that, or fat red cheeks and round 
black eyes like her own. But gradually the influence of the 
general gravity told upon her, and she became conscious of 5 
what Dinah was saying. The gentle tones, the loving per¬ 
suasion, did not touch her, but when the more severe appeals 
came she began to be frightened. Poor Bessy had always been 
considered a naughty girl; she was conscious of it; if it was 
necessary to be very good, it was clear she must be in a bad 10 
way. She couldn’t find her places at church as Sally Rann 
could; she had often been tittering when she “curcheyed” to 
Mr. Irwine; and these religious deficiencies were accompanied 
by a corresponding slackness in the minor morals, for Bessy 
belonged unquestionably to that unsoaped, lazy class of 15 
feminine characters with whom you may venture to “eat an 
egg, an apple, or a nut.” All this she was generally conscious 
of, and hitherto had not been greatly ashamed of it. But now 
she began to feel very much as if the constable had come to 
take her up and carry her before the justice for some unde-20 
fined offence. She had a terrified sense that God, whom she 
had always thought of as very far off, was very near to her, 
and that Jesus was close by looking at her, though she could 
not see him. For Dinah had that belief in visible manifesta¬ 
tions of Jesus, which is common among the Methodists, and 25 
she communicated it irresistibly to her hearers; she made 
them feel that he was among them bodily, and might at any 
moment show himself to them in some way that would strike 
anguish and penitence into their hearts. 

“See!” she exclaimed, turning to the left, with her eyes 30 
fixed on a point above the heads of the people—“see where 
our blessed Lord stands and weeps, and stretches out his arms 
towards you. Hear what he says. °‘How often would I have 
gathered you as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, 
and ye would not!’ . . . and ye would not,” she repeated, 35 
in a tone of pleading reproach, turning her eyes on the people 
again. °“See the print of the nails on his dear hands and feet. 


28 


ADAM BEDE 


It is your sins that made them! Ah! how pale and worn he 
looks! He has gone through all that great agony in the garden 
when his soul was exceeding sorrowful even unto death, and 
the great drops of sweat fell like blood to the ground. They 
s spat upon him and buffeted him, they scourged him, they 
mocked him, they laid the heavy cross on his bruised shoul¬ 
ders. Then they nailed him up. Ah! what pain! His lips are 
parched with thirst, and they mock him still in this great 
agony; yet with those parched lips he prays for them, °‘ Father, 
io forgive them, for they know not what they do/ Then a 
horror of great darkness fell upon him, and he felt what sin¬ 
ners feel when they are for ever shut out from God. That 
was the last drop in the cup of bitterness. °‘My God, my 
God!’ he cries, ‘why hast Thou forsaken me?’ 

15 “All this he bore for you! For you—and you never think 
of him; for you—and you turn your backs on him; you don’t 
care what he has gone through for you. Yet he is not weary 
of toiling for you: he has risen from the dead, he is praying for 
you at the right hand of God—‘Father, forgive them, for 
20 they know not what they do.’ And he is upon this earth, too; 
he is among us; he is there close to you now; I see his wounded 
body and his look of love.” 

Here Dinah turned to Bessy Cranage, whose bonny youth 
and evident vanity had touched her with pity. 

25 “Poor child! poor child! He is beseeching you, and you 
don’t listen to him. You think of ear-rings and fine gowns and 
caps, and you never think of the Saviour who died to save 
your precious soul. Your cheeks will be shrivelled one day, 
your hair will be grey, your poor body will be thin and totter- 
30 ing! Then you will begin to feel that your soul is not saved; 
then you will have to stand before God dressed in your sins, 
in your evil tempers and vain thoughts. And Jesus, who 
stands ready to help you now, won’t help you then: because 
you won’t have him to be your Saviour, he will be your judge. 
35 Now he looks at you with love and mercy, and says, °‘Come 
to me that you may have life;’ then he will turn away from 
you, and say, °‘Depart from me into everlasting fire!’ ” 


THE PREACHING 


29 

Poor Bessy’s wide-open black eyes began to fill with tears, 
her great red cheeks and lips became quite pale, and her face 
was distorted like a little child’s before a burst of crying. 

“Ah! poor blind child!” Dinah went on, “think if it should 
happen to you as it once happened to a servant of God in the 5 
days of her vanity. She thought of her lace caps, and saved 
all her money to buy ’em; she thought nothing about how she 
might get a clean heart and a right spirit, she only wanted to 
have better lace than other girls. And one day when she put 
her new cap on and looked in the glass, she saw a bleeding 10 
Face crowned with thorns. That face is looking at you now,” 
—here Dinah pointed to a spot close in front of Bessy.— 
“Ah! tear off those follies! cast them away from you, as if they 
were stinging adders. They are stinging you—they are 
poisoning your soul—they are dragging you down into a dark 15 
bottomless pit, where you will sink for ever, and for ever, and 
for ever, further away from light and God.” 

Bessy could bear it no longer: a great terror was upon her, 
and wrenching her ear-rings from her ears, she threw them 
down before her, sobbing aloud. Her father, Chad, frightened 20 
lest he should be “laid hold on” too, this impression on the 
rebellious Bess striking him as nothing less than a miracle, 
walked hastily away, and began to work at his anviijby way of 
reassuring himself. “Folks mun ha’ hoss-shoes, praichin’ or 
no praichin’: the divil canna lay hould o’ me for that,” he 25 
muttered to himself. 

But now Dinah began to tell of the joys that were in store 
for the penitent, and to describe in her simple way the divine 
peace and love with which the soul of the believer is filled— 
how the sense of God’s love turns poverty into riches, and sat- 30 
isfies the soul, so that no uneasy desire vexes it, no fear alarms 
it: how, at last, the very temptation to sin is extinguished, 
and heaven is begun upon earth, because no cloud passes 
between the soul and God, who is its eternal sun. 

“Dear friends,” she said at last, “brothers and sisters,35 
whom I love as those for whom my Lord has died, believe 
me, I know what this great blessedness is; and because I know 


30 


ADAM BEDE 


it, I want you to have it too. I am poor, like you: I have to 
get my living with my hands; but no lord nor lady can be so 
happy as me, if they haven’t got the love of God in their 
souls. Think what it is—not to hate anything but sin; to be 
a full of love to every creature; to be frightened at nothing; to 
be sure that all things will turn to good; not to mind pain, be¬ 
cause it is our Father’s will; to know that nothing—no, not 
if the earth was to be burnt up, or the waters come and drown 
us—nothing could part us from God who loves us, and who 
io fills our souls with peace and joy, because we are sure that 
whatever he wills is holy, just, and good. 

“Dear friends, come and take this blessedness; it is offered 
to you; it is the good news that Jesus came to preach to the 
poor. It is not like the riches of this world, so that the more 
15 one gets the less the rest can have. God is without end; his 
love is without end— 

‘Its streams the whole creation reach, 

So plenteous is the store; 

Enough for all, enough for each, 

20 Enough for evermore.’ ” 

Dinah had been speaking at least an hour, and the redden¬ 
ing light of the parting'day seemed to give a solemn emphasis 
to her closing words. The stranger, who had been interested 
in the course of her sermon, as if it had been the development 
25 of a drama—for there is this sort of fascination in all sincere 
unpremeditated eloquence, which opens to one the inward 
drama of the speaker’s emotions—now turned his horse aside, 
and pursued his way, while Dinah said, “Let us sing a little, 
dear friends;” and as he was still winding down the slope, the 
30 voices of the Methodists reached him, rising and falling in that 
strange blending of exultation and sadness which belongs to 
the cadence of a hymn. 


CHAPTER III 

AFTER THE PREACHING 


% 

In less than an hour from that time Seth Bede was walking 
by Dinah’s side along the hedgerow-path that skirted the 
pastures and green corn-fields which lay between the village 
and the Hall Farm. Dinah had taken off her little Quaker 
bonnet again, and was holding it in her hands that she might 5 
have a freer enjoyment of the cool evening twilight, and Seth 
could see the expression of her face quite clearly as he walked 
by her side, timidly revolving something he wanted to say to 
her. It was an expression of unconscious placid gravity—of 
absorption in thoughts that had no connection with the present 10 
moment or with her own personality: an expression that is 
most of all discouraging to a lover. Her very walk was dis¬ 
couraging: it had that quiet elasticity that asks for no sup¬ 
port. Seth felt this dimly; he said to himself, “She’s too good 
and holy for any man, let alone me,” and the words he had 15 
been summoning rushed back again before they had reached 
his lips. But another thought gave him courage: “There’s 
no man could love her better, and leave her freer to follow the 
Lord’s work.” They had been silent for many minutes now, 
since they had done talking about Bessy Cranage; Dinah 20 
seemed almost to have forgotten Seth’s presence, and her pace 
was becoming so much quicker, that the sense of their being 
only a few minutes’ walk from the yard-gates of the Hall 
Farm at last gave Seth courage to speak. 

“You’ve quite made up your mind to go back to Snowfield 25 
o’ Saturday, Dinah?” 

“Yes,” said Dinah, quietly. “I’m called there. It was 
borne in upon my mind while I was meditating on Sunday 
night, as Sister Allen, who’s in a decline, is in need of me. I 

31 


ADAM BEDE 


32 

saw her as plain as we see that bit of thin white cloud, lifting 
up her poor thin hand and beckoning to me. °And this 
morning when I opened the Bible for direction, the first 
words my eyes fell on were, °‘And after we had seen the vision, 

5 immediately we endeavoured to go into Macedonia.’ If it 
wasn’t for that clear showing of the Lord’s win I should be 
loath to go, for my heart yearns over my aunt and her little 
ones, and that poor wandering lamb Hetty Sorrel. I’ve been 
much drawn out in prayer for her of late, and I look on it as a 
10 token that there may be mercy in store for her.” 

“God grant it,” said Seth. “For I doubt Adam’s heart is 
so set on her, he’ll never turn to anybody else; and yet it ’ud 
go to my heart if he was to marry her, for I canna think as 
she’d make him happy. It’s a deep mystery—the way the 
15 heart of man turns to one woman out of all the rest he’s seen 
i’ the world, and makes it easier for him to work seven year 
for her, like Jacob did for Rachel, sooner than have any other 
woman for th’ asking. I often think of them words, °‘And 
Jacob served seven years for Rachel; and they seemed to him 
20 but a few days for the love he had to her.’ I know those 
words ’ud come true with me, Dinah, if so be you’d give me 
hope as I might win you after seven years was over. I know 
you think a husband ’ud be taking up too much o’ your 
thoughts, because St. Paul says, °‘She that’s married careth 
25 for the things of the world how she may please her husband;’ 
and may happen you’ll think me over-bold to speak to you 
about it again, after what you told me o’ your mind last 
Saturday. But I’ve been thinking it over again by night and 
by day, and I’ve prayed not to be blinded by my own desires, 
30 to think what’s only good for me must be good for you too. 

• And it seems to me there’s more texts for your marrying than 
ever you can find against it. For St. Paul says as plain as can 
be in another place, °‘I will that the younger women marry, 
bear children, guide the house, give none occasion to the ad- 
35 vers ary to speak reproachfully;’ and then ‘two are better 
than one;’ and that holds good with marriage as well as with 
other things. For we should be o’ one heart and o’ one mind. 


AFTER THE PREACHING 


33 


Dinah. We both serve the same Master, and are striving 
after the same gifts; and I’d never be the husband to make 
a claim on you as could interfere with your doing the work 
God has fitted you for. I’d make a shift, and fend indoor and 
out, to give you more liberty—more than you can haves 
now, for you’ve got to get your own living now, and I’m 
strong enough to work for us both.” 

When Seth had once begun to urge his suit, he went on 
earnestly, and almost hurriedly, lest Dinah should speak some 
decisive word before he had poured forth all the arguments he io 
had prepared. His cheeks became flushed as he went on, his 
mild grey eyes filled with tears, and his voice trembled as he 
spoke the last sentence. They had reached one of those very 
narrow passes between two tall stones, which performed the 
office of a stile in Loamshire, and Dinah paused as she turned is 
towards Seth and said, in her tender but calm treble notes— 

“ Seth Bede, I thank you for your love towards me, and if I 
could think of any man as more than a Christian brother, I 
think it would be you. But my heart is not free to marry. 
That is good for other women, and it is a great and a blessed 20 
thing to be a wife and mother; but °‘as God has distributed to 
every man, as the Lord hath called every man, so let him 
walk/ God has called me to minister to others, not to have 
any joys or sorrows of my own, but to rejoice with them that 
do rejoice, and to weep with those that weep. He has called me 25 
to speak his word, and he has greatly owned my work. It 
could only be on a very clear showing that I could leave the 
brethren and sisters at Snowfield, who are favoured with very 
little of this world’s good; where the trees are few, so that a 
child might count them, and there’s very hard living for the 30 
poor in the winter. It has been given me to help, to comfort, 
and strengthen the little flock there, and to call in many wan¬ 
derers; and my soul is filled with these things from my rising 
up till my lying down. My life is too short, and God’s work 
is too great for me to think of making a home for myself in 35 
this world. I’ve not turned a deaf ear to your words, Seth, for 
when I saw as your love was given to me, I thought it might 


34 


ADAM BEDE 


be a leading of Providence for me to change my way of life, 
and that we should be fellow-helpers; and I spread the matter 
before the Lord. But whenever I tried to fix my mind on mar¬ 
riage, and our living together, other thoughts always came 
s in—the times when I’ve prayed by the sick and dying, and 
the happy hours Fve had preaching, when my heart was filled 
with love, and the Word was given to me abundantly. And 
when Fve opened the Bible for direction, Fve always lighted on 
some clear word to tell me where my work lay. I believe what 
io you say, Seth, that you would try to be a help and not a hin¬ 
drance to my work; but I see that our marriage is not God’s 
will—He draws my heart another way. I desire to live and 
die without husband or children. I seem to have no room in 
my soul for wants and fears of my own, it has pleased God to 
is fill my heart so full with the wants and sufferings of his poor 
people.” 

Seth was unable to reply, and they walked on in silence. At 
last, as they were nearly at the yard-gate, he said— 

“Well, Dinah, I must seek for strength to bear it, and to 
20 endure as seeing Him who is invisible. But I feel now how 
weak my faith is. It seems as if, when you are gone, I could 
never joy in anything any more. I think it’s something pass¬ 
ing the love of women as I feel for you, for I could be content 
without your marrying me if I could go and live at Snowfield, 
25 and be near you. I trusted as the strong love God had given 
me towards you was a leading for us both; but it seems it was 
only meant for my trial. Perhaps I feel more for you than I 
ought to feel for any creature, for I often can’t help saying of 
you what the hymn says— 

30 ‘In darkest shades if she appear, 

My dawning is begun; 

She is my soul’s bright morning-star, 

And she my rising sun.’ 

That may be wrong, and I am to be taught better. But you 
35 wouldn’t be displeased with me if things turned out so as I 
could leave this country and go to live at Snowfield?” 


AFTER THE PREACHING 


35 

“No, Seth; but I counsel you to wait patiently and not 
lightly to leave your own country and kindred. Do nothing 
without the Lord’s clear bidding. It’s a bleak and barren 
country there, not like this °land of Goshen you’ve been used 
to. We mustn’t be in a hurry to fix and choose our own lot; 
we must wait to be guided.” 

“But you’d let me write you a letter, Dinah, if there was 
anything I wanted to tell you?” 

“Yes, sure; let me know if you’re in any trouble. You’ll 
be continually in my prayers.” 

They had now reached the yard-gate, and Seth said, “I 
won’t go in, Dinah; so farewell.” He paused and hesitated 
after she had given him her hand, and then said, “There’s 
no knowing but what you may see things different after a 
while. There may be a new leading.” 

“Let us leave that, Seth. It’s good to live only a moment 
at a time, as I’ve read in one of Mr. Wesley’s books. It 
isn’t for you and me to lay plans; we’ve nothing to do but to 
obey and to trust. Farewell.” 

Dinah pressed his hand with rather a sad look in her loving 
eyes, and then passed through the gate, while Seth turned 
away to walk lingeringly home. But instead of taking the 
direct road, he chose to turn back along the fields through 
which he and Dinah had already passed; and I think his blue 
linen handkerchief was very wet with tears long before he had 
made up his mind that it was time for him to set his face 
steadily homewards. He was but three-and-twenty, and had 
only just learned what it is to love—to love with that adora¬ 
tion which a young man gives to a woman whom he feels to be 
greater and better than himself. Love of this sort is hardly 
distinguishable from religious feeling. What deep and worthy 
love is so? whether of woman or child, or art or music. Our 
caresses, our tender words, our still rapture under the in¬ 
fluence of autumn sunsets, or pillared vistas, or calm majestic 
statues, or °Beethoven symphonies, all bring with them the 
consciousness that they are mere waves and ripples in an 
unfathomable ocean of love and beauty; our emotion in its 


5 

io 

15 

20 

25 

3 ° 

35 


ADAM BEDE 


36 

keenest moment passes from expression into silence, our love 
at its highest flood rushes beyond its object, and loses itself 
in the sense of divine mystery. And this blessed gift of vener¬ 
ating love has been given to too many humble craftsmen since 
s the world began, for us to feel any surprise that it should have 
existed in the soul of a Methodist carpenter half a century 
ago, while there was yet a lingering after-glow from the time 
when °Wesley and his fellow-labourer fed on the hips and 
haws of the Cornwall hedges, after exhausting limbs and lungs 
xo in carrying a divine message to the poor. 

That after-glow has long faded away; and the picture we 
are apt to make of Methodism in our imagination is not an 
amphitheatre of green hills, or the deep shade of broad-leaved 
sycamores, where a crowd of rough men and weary-hearted 
15 women drank in a faith which was a rudimentary culture, 
which linked their thoughts with the past, lifted their imag¬ 
ination above the sordid details of their own narrow lives, 
and suffused their souls with the sense of a pitying, loving, in¬ 
finite Presence, sweet as summer to the houseless needy. It is 
20 too possible that to some of my readers Methodism may mean 
nothing more than low-pitched gables up dingy streets, sleek 
grocers, sponging preachers, and hypocritical jargon—ele¬ 
ments which are regarded as an exhaustive analysis of Meth¬ 
odism in many fashionable quarters. 

25 That would be a pity; for I cannot pretend that Seth and 
Dinah were anything else than Methodists—not indeed of 
that modern type which reads quarterly reviews and attends 
in chapels with pillared porticoes; but of a very old-fashioned 
kind. They believed in present miracles, in instantaneous 
30 conversions, in revelations by dreams and visions; they drew 
lots, and sought for Divine guidance by opening the Bible at 
hazard, °having a literal way of interpreting the Scriptures, 
which is not at all sanctioned by approved commentators; 
and it is impossible for me to represent their diction as correct, 
35 or their instruction as liberal. Still—if I have read religious 
history aright—°faith, hope, and charity have not always 
been found in a direct ratio with a sensibility to the three 


AFTER THE PREACHING 


37 


concords; and °it is possible, thank Heaven! to have very 
erroneous theories and very sublime feelings. The raw bacon 
which clumsy Molly spares from her own scanty store, that 
she may carry it to her neighbour’s child to “stop the fits,” 
may be a piteously inefficacious remedy; but the generous 5 
stirring of neighbourly kindness that prompted the deed has 
a beneficient radiation that is not lost. 

°Considering these things, we can hardly think Dinah and 
Seth beneath our sympathy, accustomed as we may be to 
weep over the loftier sorrows of heroines in satin boots and to 
crinoline, and of heroes riding fiery horses, themselves ridden 
by still more fiery passions. 

Poor Seth! he was never on horseback in his life except 
once, when he was a little lad, and Mr. Jonathan Burge took 
him up behind, telling him to “hold on tight;” and instead of 15 
bursting out into wild accusing apostrophes to God and destiny 
he is resolving, as he now walks homeward under the solemn 
starlight, to repress his sadness, to be less bent on having his 
own will, and to live more for others, as Dinah does. 


CHAPTER IV 

HOME AND ITS SORROWS 

A green valley with a brook running through it, full almost 
to overflowing with the late rains; overhung by low stooping 
willows. Across this brook a plank is thrown, and over this 
plank Adam Bede is passing with his undoubting step, fol- 
5 lowed close by Gyp with the basket; evidently making his way 
to the thatched house, with a stack of timber by the side of it, 
about twenty yards up the opposite slope. 

The door of the house is open, and an elderly woman is 
looking out; but she is not placidly contemplating the evening 
io sunshine; she has been watching with dim eyes the gradually 
enlarging speck which for the last few minutes she has been 
quite sure is her darling son Adam. Lisbeth Bede loves her 
son with the love of a woman to whom her first-born has come 
late in life. She is an anxious, spare, yet vigorous old woman, 
15 clean as a snowdrop. Her grey hair is turned neatly back 
under a pure linen cap with a black band round it; her broad 
chest is covered with a buff neckerchief, and below this you 
see a sort of short bed-gown made of blue-checkered linen, 
tied round the waist and descending to the hips, from whence 
20 there is a considerable length of linsey-woolsey petticoat. For 
Lisbeth is tall, and in other points too there is a strong likeness 
between her and her son Adam. Her dark eyes are somewhat 
dim now—perhaps from too much crying—but her broadly- 
marked eyebrows are still black, her teeth are sound, and as 
25 she stands knitting rapidly and unconsciously with her work- 
hardened hands, she has as firmly-upright an attitude as when 
she is carrying a pail of water on her head from the spring. 
There is the same type of frame and the same keen activity of 
temperament in mother and son, but it was not from her that 

38 


HOME AND ITS SORROWS 


39 

Adam got his well-filled brow and his expression of large- 
hearted intelligence. 

Family likeness has often a deep sadness in it. Nature, 
that great tragic dramatist, knits us together by bone and 
muscle, and divides us by the subtler web of our brains; blends 5 
yearning and repulsion; and ties us by our heartstrings to the 
beings that jar us at every movement. We hear a voice with 
the very cadence of our own uttering the thoughts we despise; 
we see eyes—ah! so like our mother’s—averted from us in cold 
alienation; and our last darling child startles us with the air 10 # 
and gestures of the sister we parted from in bitterness long 
years ago. The father to whom we owe our best heritage— 
the mechanical instinct, the keen sensibility to harmony, the 
unconscious skill of the modelling hand—galls us, and puts 
us to shame by his daily errors; the long-lost mother, whose 15 
face we begin to see in the glass as our own wrinkles come, 
once fretted our young souls with her anxious humours and 
irrational persistence. 

It is such a fond anxious mother’s voice that you near, as 
Lisbeth says— 20 

“Well, my lad, it’s gone seven by th’ clock. Thee’t allays 
stay till the last child’s born. Thee wants thy supper, I’ll 
warrand. Where’s Seth? gone arter some o’s °chapellin’, I 
reckon?” 

“Ay, ay, Seth’s at no harm, mother, thee mayst be sure. 25 
But where’s father?” said Adam quickly, as he entered the 
house and glanced into the room on the left hand, which was 
used as a workshop. “Hasn’t he done the coffin for Tholer? 
There’s the stuff standing just as I left it this morning.” 

“Done the coffin?” said Lisbeth, following him, and knit-30 
ting uninterruptedly, though she looked at her son very 
anxiously. “Eh, my lad, he went aff to Treddles’on this fore¬ 
noon, an’s niver come back. I doubt he’s got to th’ °‘Waggin 
Overthrow’again.” 

A deep flush of anger passed rapidly over Adam’s face. He 35 
said nothing, but threw off his jacket, and began to roll up his 
shirt-sleeves again. 


4 o 


ADAM BEDE 


“What art goin’ to do, Adam?” said the mother, with a 
tone and look of alarm. “Thee wouldstna go to work again, 
wi’out ha’in thy bit o’ supper?” 

Adam, too angry to speak, walked into the workshop. But 
5 his mother threw down her knitting, and, hurrying after him, 
took hold of his arm, and said, in a tone of plaintive remon¬ 
strance— 

“Nay, my lad, my lad, thee munna go wi’out thy supper; 
there’s the taters wi’ the gravy in ’em, just as thee lik’st ’em. 

. io I saved ’em o’ purpose for thee. Come an’ ha’ thy supper, 
come.” 

“Let be!” said Adam impetuously, shaking her off, and 
seizing one of the planks that stood against the wall. “It’s 
fine talking about having supper when here’s a coffin promised 
15 to be ready at Brox’on by seven o’clock tomorrow morning, 
and ought to ha’ been there now, and not a nail struck yet. 
My throat’s too full to swallow victuals.” 

“Why, thee canstna get the coffin ready,” said Lisbeth. 
“Thee’t work thyself to death. It ’ud take thee all night to 
20 do’t. ” 

“What signifies how long it takes me? Isn’t the coffin 
promised? Can they bury the man without a coffin? I’d 
work my right hand off sooner than deceive people with lies 
i’ that way. It makes me mad to think on’t. I shall overrun 
25 these doings before long. I’ve stood enough of ’em.” 

Poor Lisbeth did not hear this threat for the first time, and 
if she had been wise she would have gone away quietly, and 
said nothing for the next hour. But one of the lessons a 
woman most rarely learns, is never to talk to an angry or a 
30 drunken man. Lisbeth sat down on the chopping bench and 
began to cry, and by the time she had cried enough to make 
her voice very piteous, she burst out into words. 

“Nay, my lad, my lad, thee wouldstna go away an’ break 
thy mother’s heart, an’ leave thy feyther to ruin. Thee 
as wouldstna ha’ ’em carry me to th’ churchyard, an’ thee not to 
follow me. I shanna rest i’ my grave if I donna see thee at 
th’ last; an’ how’s they to let thee know as I’m a-dyin, if 


HOME AND ITS SORROWS 


41 


thee’t gone a-workin’ i’ distant parts, an’ Seth belike gone ar- 
ter thee, and thy feyther not able to hold a pen for’s hand 
shakin’, besides not knowin’ where thee art? Thee mun 
forgie thy feyther—thee munna be so bitter again’ him. He 
war a good feyther to thee afore he took to th’ drink. He’s 5 
a clever workman, an’ taught thee thy trade, remember, an’s 
niver gen me a blow nor so much as an ill word—no, not even 
in’s drink. Thee wouldstna ha’ ’m go to the workhus—thy 
own feyther— an’ him as was a fine-growed man an’ handy at 
everythin’ amost as thee art thysen, five-an’-twenty ’ear ago, 10 
when thee wast a baby at the breast.” 

Lisbeth’s voice became louder, and choked with sobs: a 
sort of wail, the most irritating of all sounds where real sor¬ 
rows are to be borne, and real work to be done. Adam broke 
in impatiently. 15 

“Now, mother, don’t cry and talk so. Haven’t I got 
enough to vex me without that? What’s th’ use o’ Celling 
me things as I only think too much on every day? If I didna 
think on ’em why should I do as I do, for the sake o’ keeping 
things together here? But I hate to be talking where it’s no 20 
use: I like to keep my breath for doing istead o’ talking.” 

“I know thee dost things as nobody else ’ud do, my lad. 
But thee’t allays so hard upo’ thy feyther, Adam. Thee 
think’st nothing too much to do for Seth: thee snapp’st me up 
if iver I find faut wi’ th’ lad. But thee’t so angered wi’ thy 25 
feyther, more nor wi’ anybody else.” 

“That’s better than speaking soft, and letting things go 
the wrong way, I reckon, isn’t it? If I wasn’t sharp with him, 
he’d sell every bit o’ stuff i’ th’ yard, and spend it on drink. 

I know there’s a duty to be done by my father, but it isn’t 30 
my duty to encourage him in running headlong to ruin. And 
what has Seth got to do with it? The lad does no harm as I 
know of. But leave me alone, mother, and let me get on with 
the work.” 

Lisbeth dared not say any more; but she got up and called 35 
Gyp, thinking to console herself somewhat for Adam’s refusal 
of the supper she had spread out in the loving expectation of 


42 


ADAM BEDE 


looking at him while he ate it, by feeding Adam’s dog with 
extra liberality. But Gyp was watching his master with 
wrinkled brow and ears erect, puzzled at this unusual course 
of things; and though he glanced at Lisbeth when she called 
5 him, and moved his fore-paws uneasily, well knowing that 
she was inviting him to supper, he was in a divided state of 
mind, and remained seated on his haunches, again fixing his 
eyes anxiously on his master. Adam noticed Gyp’s mental 
conflict, and though his anger had made him less tender than 
xo usual to his mother, it did not prevent him from caring as 
much as usual for his dog. We are apt to be kinder to the 
brutes that love us than to the women that love us. Is it 
because the brutes are dumb? 

“Go, Gyp; go, lad!” Adam said, in a tone of encouraging 
is command; and Gyp, apparently satisfied that duty and pleas¬ 
ure were one, followed Lisbeth into the house-place. 

But no sooner had he licked up his supper than he went 
back to his master, while Lisbeth sat down alone to cry over 
her knitting. Women who are never bitter and resentful are 
20 often the most querulous; and if °Solomon was as wise as he is 
reputed to be, I feel sure that when he compared a contentious 
woman to a continual dropping on a very rainy day, he had 
not a vixen in his eye—a fury with long nails, acrid and self¬ 
ish. Depend upon it, he meant a good creature, who had no 
25 joy but in the happiness of the loved ones whom she con¬ 
tributed to make uncomfortable, putting by all the tid-bits for 
them, and spending nothing on herself. Such a woman as 
Lisbeth, for example—at once patient and complaining, self- 
renouncing and exacting, brooding the livelong day over what 
30 happened yesterday, and what is likely to happen to-morrow, 
and crying very readily both at the good and the evil. But 
a certain awe mingled itself with her idolatrous love of 
Adam, and when he said, “Leave me alone,” she was always 
silenced. 

35 So the hours passed, to the loud ticking of the old day-clock 
and the sound of Adam’s tools. At last he called for a light 
and a draught of water (beer was a thing only to be drunk on 


HOME AND ITS SORROWS 43 

holidays), and Lisbeth ventured to say as she took it in, “Thy 
supper stans ready for thee, when thee lik’st. ” 

“Donna thee sit up, mother,” said Adam, in a gentle tone. 
He had worked off his anger now, and whenever he wished to 
be especially kind to his mother, he fell into his strongest 5 
native accent and dialect, with which at other times his speech 
was less deeply tinged. I 11 see to father when he comes 
home, maybe he wonna come at all to-night. I shall be easier 
if thee’t i’ bed.” 

Nay, I 11 bide till Seth comes. He wonna be long now, 10 
I reckon.” 

It was then past nine by the clock, which was always in 
advance of the day, and before it had struck ten the latch was 
lifted and Seth entered. He had heard the sound of the tools 
as he was approaching. IS 

Why, mother, he said, “how is it as father’s working so 
late?” 

“It’s none o’ thy feyther as is a-workin’—thee might know 
that well anoof if thy head warna full o’ chapellin’—it’s thy 
brother as does iverything, for there’s niver nobody else i’20 
th’ way to do nothin’.” 

Lisbeth was going on, for she was not at all afraid of Seth, 
and usually poured into his ears all the querulousness which 
was repressed by her awe of Adam. Seth had never in his life 
spoken a harsh word to his mother, and timid people always 25 
wreak their peevishness on the gentle. But Seth, with an 
anxious look, had passed into the workshop and said— 

“Addy, how’s this? What! father’s forgot the coffin?” 

“Ay, lad, th’ old tale; but I shall get it done,’’said Adam, look¬ 
ing up, and casting one of his bright keen glances at his brother. 30 
“Why, what’s the matter with thee? Thee’t in trouble.” 

Seth’s eyes were red, and there was a look of deep depres¬ 
sion on his mild face. 

“Yes, Addy, but it’s what must be borne, and can’t be 
helped. Why, thee’st never been to the school, then ?” 35 

School? no; that screw can wait,” said Adam, hammering 
away again. 


44 


ADAM BEDE 


“Let me take my turn now, and do thee go to bed,” said 
Seth. 

“No, lad, I’d rather go on, now I’m in harness. Thee’t 
help me to carry it to Brox’on when it’s done. I’ll call thee 
5 up at sunrise. Go and eat thy supper, and shut the door, so as 
I mayn’t hear mother’s talk.” 

Seth knew that Adam always meant what he said, and was 
not to be persuaded into meaning anything else. So he turned, 
with rather a heavy heart, into the house-place, 
io “Adam’s niver touched a bit o’ victual sin’ home he’s 
come,” said Lisbeth. “I reckon thee’st hed thy supper at 
some o’ thy Methody folks. ” 

“Nay, mother,” said Seth, “I’ve had no supper yet.” 

“Come, then,” said Lisbeth, “but donna thee ate the 
15 taters, for Adam ’ull happen ate ’em if I leave ’em stannin’. 
He loves a bit o’ taters an’ gravy. But he’s been so sore an’ 
angered, he wouldn’t ate ’em, for all I’d putten ’em by o’ 
purpose for him. An’ he’s been a-threatenin’ to go away again” 
she went on, whimpering, “an’ I’m fast sure he’ll go some 
20 dawnin’ afore I’m up, an’ niver let me know aforehand, an’ 
he’ll niver come back again when once he’s gone. An’ I’d 
better niver ha’ had a son, as is like no other body’s son for 
the deftness an’ th’ handiness, an’ so looked on by th’ grit 
folks, an’ tall an’ upright like a poplar-tree, an’ me to be parted 
25 from him, an’ niver see’m no more.” 

“Come, mother, donna grieve thyself in vain,” said Seth, 
in a soothing voice. “Thee’st not half so good reason to 
think as Adam ’ull go away as to think he’ll stay with thee. 
He may say such a thing when he’s in wrath—and he’s got 
30 excuse for being wrathful sometimes—but his heart ’ud never 
let him go. Think how he’s stood by us all when it’s been 
none so easy—paying his savings to free me from going for a 
soldier, an’ turnin’ his earnins into wood for father, when he’s 
got plenty o’ uses for his money, and many a young man like 
35 him ’ud ha’ been married and settled before now. He’ll never 
turn round and knock down his own work, and forsake them 
as it’s been the labour of his life to stand by.” 


HOME AND ITS SORROWS 


45 

“Donna talk to me about’s marr’in,” said Lisbeth, crying 
afresh. “He’s set’s heart on that Hetty Sorrel, as ’ull niver 
save a penny, an’ ’ull toss up her head at’s old mother. An’ 
to think as he might ha’ Mary Burge, an’ be took partners, 
an’ be a big man wi’ workmen under him, like Mester Burge— 5 
Dolly’s told me so o’er and o’er again—if it warna as he’s set’s 
heart on that bit of a wench, as is o’ no more use nor the 
gillyflower on the wall. An’ he so wise at bookin’ an’ figurin’, 
an’ not to know no better nor that!” 

“But, mother, thee know’st we canna love just where other 10 
folks ’ud have us. There’s nobody but God can control the 
heart of man. I could ha’ wished myself as Adam could ha’ 
made another choice, but I wouldn’t reproach him for what 
he can’t help. And I’m not sure but what he tries to o’ercome 
it. But it’s a matter as he doesn’t like to be spoke to about, 15 
and I can only pray to the Lord to bless and direct him.” 

“Ay, thee’t allays ready enough at prayin’, but I donna see 
as thee gets much wi’ thy prayin’. Thee wotna get double 
earnins o’ this side Yule. Th’ Methodies ’ll niver make thee 
half the man thy brother is, for all they’re a-makin’ a preacher 20 
on thee.” 

“It’s partly truth thee speak’st there, mother,” said Seth, 
mildly; “Adam’s far before me, an’s done more for me than 
I can ever do for him. God distributes talents to every man 
according as He sees good. But thee mustna undervally 25 
prayer. Prayer mayna bring money, but it brings us what no 
money can buy—a power to keep from sin, and be content 
with God’s will, whatever He may please to send. If thee 
wouldst pray to God to help thee, and trust in His goodness, 
thee wouldstna be so uneasy about things.” 30 

“Unaisy? I’m i’th’right on’t to be unaisy. It’s well seen 
on thee what it is niver to be unaisy. Thee’t gi’ away all thy 
earnings, an’ niver be unaisy as thee’st nothin’ laid up again’ 
a rainy day. If Adam had been as aisy as thee, he’d niver ha’ 
had no money to pay for thee. °Take no thought for the 35 
morrow—take no thought—that’s what thee’t allays sayin’; an’ 
what comes on’t ? Why, as Adam has to take thought for thee.” 


46 


ADAM BEDE 


“Those are the words o’ the Bible, mother,” said Seth. 
“They don’t mean as we should be idle. They mean we 
shouldn’t be over anxious and worreting ourselves about 
what’ll happen to-morrow, but do our duty, and leave the 
5 rest to God’s will.” 

f* “Ay, ay, that’s the way wi’ thee; thee allays makes a peck 
o’ thy words out o’ a pint o’ the Bible’s. I donna see how 
thee’t to know as ‘take no thought for the morrow’ means all 
that. An’ when the Bible’s such a big book, an’ thee canst 
io read all thro’t, an’ ha’ the pick o’ the texes, I canna think why 
thee dostna pick better words as donna mean so much more nor 
they say. Adam doesna pick a that’n; I can understan’ the tex 
as he’s allays a-sayin’, ‘God helps them as helps theirsens.’ 

“Nay, mother,” said Seth, “that’s no text o’ the Bible, 
is It comes out of a book as Adam picked up at the stall at 
Treddles’on. It was wrote by a knowing man, but over- 
wordly, I doubt. However, that saying’s partly true; for the 
Bible tells us we must be workers together with God.” 

“Well, how’m I to know? It sounds like a tex. But what’s 
20th’ matter wi’ th’ lad? Thee’t hardly atin’ a bit o’ supper. 
Dostna mean to ha’ no more nor that bit o’ oatcake? An’ 
thee lookst as white as a flick o’ new bacon. What’s th’ matter 
wi’ thee?” 

“Nothing to mind about, mother; I’m not hungry. I’ll 
2s just look in at Adam again, and see if he’ll let me go on with 
the coffin.” 

“Ha’ a drop o’ warm broth?” said Lisbeth, whose motherly 
feeling now got the better of her °“nattering” habit. “I’ll 
set two-three sticks a-light in a minute.” 
so “Nay, mother, thank thee; thee’t very good,” said Seth, 
gratefully; and encouraged by this touch of tenderness, he 
went on: “Let me pray a bit with thee for father, and Adam, 
and all of us—it’ll comfort thee, happen, more than thee 
thinkst.” 

“Well, I’ve nothin’ to say again’ it.” 

Lisbeth, though disposed always to take the negative side 
in her conversations with Seth, had a vague sense t&it there 


35 


HOME AND ITS SORROWS 


47 


was some comfort and safety in the fact of his piety, and that 
it somehow relieved her from the trouble of any spiritual 
transactions on her own behalf. 

So the mother and son knelt down together, and Seth 
prayed for the poor wandering father, and for those who were 5 
sorrowing for him at home. And when he came to the petition 
that Adam might never^be called to set up his tent in a far 
country, but that his mother might be cheered and comforted 
by his presence all the days of her pilgrimage, Lisbeth’s ready 
tears flowed again, and she wept aloud. 10 

When they rose from their knees, Seth went to Adam again, 
and said, “Wilt only lie down for an hour or two, and let me 
go on the while ?” 

“No, Seth, no. Make mother go to bed, and go thyself.” 

Meantime Lisbeth had dried her eyes, and now followed 15 
Seth, holding something in her hands. It was the brown-and- 
yellow platter containing the baked potatoes with the gravy 
in them and bits of meat which she had cut and mixed among 
them. Those were dear times, when wheaten bread and fresh 
meat were delicacies to working people. She set the dish 20 
down rather timidly on the bench by Adam’s side, and said, 
“Thee canst pick a bit while thee’t workin’. I’ll bring thee 
another drop o’ water.” 

“Ay, mother, do,” said Adam, kindly; “I’m getting very 
thirsty.” 25 

In half an hour all was quiet; no sound was to be heard in 
the house but the loud ticking of the old day-clock, and the 
ringing of Adam’s tools. The night was very still: when Adam 
opened the door to look out at twelve o’clock, the only 
motion seemed to be in the glowing, twinkling stars; every 30 
blade of grass was asleep. 

Bodily haste and exertion usually leave our thoughts very 
much at the mercy of our feelings and imagination; and it was 
so to-night with Adam. While his muscles were working 
lustily, his mind seemed as passive as a spectator at a °dio- 35 
rama: scenes of the sad past, and probably sad future, floating 
before him, and giving place one to the other in swift succession. 


48 


ADAM BEDE 


He saw how it would be to-morrow morning, when he had 
carried the coffin to Broxton and was at home again, having 
his breakfast:^ his father perhaps would come in ashamed to 
meet his son’s glance—would sit down, looking older and 
5 more tottering than he had done the morning before, and 
hang down his head, examining the floor-quarries; while 
Lisbeth would ask him how he supposed the coffin had been 
got ready, that he had slinked - off and left undone—for 
Lisbeth was always the first to utter the word of reproach, 
jo although she cried at Adam’s severity towards his father. 

“So it will^go on, worsening and worsening,” thought 
Adam; “there’s no slipping up-hill again, and no standing 
still when once you’ve begun to slip down.” And then the 
day came back to him when he was a little fellow and used 
15 to run by his father’s side, proud to be taken out to work, and 
prouder still to hear his father boasting to his fellow-workmen 
h°w little chap had an uncommon notion o’ carpenter¬ 
ing.” What a fine active fellow his father was then! When 
people asked Adam whose little lad he was, he had a sense of 
20 distinction as he answered, “I’m Thias Bede’s lad”—he was 
quite sure everybody knew Thias Bede: didn’t he make the 
wonderful pigeon-house at Broxton parsonage? Those were 
happy days, especially when Seth, who was three years the 
younger, began to go out working too, and Adam began to be 
2 S a teacher as well as a learner. But then came the days of 
sadness, when Adam was someway on in his teens, and Thias 
began to loiter at the public houses, and Lisbeth began to cry 
at home, and to pour forth her plaints in the hearing of her 
sons. Adam remembered well the night of shame and anguish 
30 when he first saw his father quite wild and foolish, shouting a 
song out fitfully among his drunken companions at the 
Waggon Overthrown. ” He had run away once when he was 
on |y eighteen, making his escape in the morning twilight with 
a little blue bundle over his shoulder, and his “mensuration 
.35 book in his pocket, and saying to himself very decidedly that 
he could bear the vexations of home no longer—he would go 
and seek his fortune, setting up his stick at the crossways and 


HOME AND ITS SORROWS 


49 


bending his steps the way it fell. But by the time he got to 
Stoniton, the thought of his mother and Seth, left behind to 
endure everything without him, became too importunate, and 
and his resolution failed him. He came back the next day, but 
the misery and terror his mother had gone through in those 5 
two days had haunted her ever since. 

“No!” Adam said to himself to-night, “that must never 
happen again. It ’ud make a poor balance when my doings 
are cast up at the last, if my poor old mother stood o’ the 
wrong side. My back’s broad enough and strong enough; 1 10 
should be no better than a coward to go away and leave the 
troubles to be borne by them as aren’t half so able. °‘They 
that are strong ought to bear the infirmities of those that are 
weak, and not to please themselves.’ There’s a text wants no 
candle to show’t; it shines by its own light. It’s plain enough 15 
you get into the wrong road i’ this life if you run after this and 
that only for the sake o’ making things easy and pleasant to 
yourself. A pig may poke his nose into the trough and think 
o’ nothing outside it; but if you’ve got a man’s heart and soul 
in you, you can’t be easy a-making your own bed an’ leaving 20 
the rest to lie on the stones. Nay, nay, I’ll never slip my neck 
out o’ the yoke, and leave the load to be drawn by the weak 
uns. Father’s a sore cross to me, an’s likely to be for many a 
long year to come. What then? I’ve got th’ health, and the 
limbs, and the sperrit to bear it.” 25 

At this moment a smart rap, as if with a willow wand, was 
given at the house door, and Gyp, instead of barking, as 
might have been expected gave a loud howl. Adam, very 
much startled, went at once to the door and opened it. 
Nothing was there; all was still, as when he opened it an hour 30 
before; the leaves were motionless, and the light of the stars 
showed the placid fields on both sides of the brook quite 
empty of visible life. Adam walked round the house, and still 
saw nothing except a rat which darted into the woodshed as 
he passed. He went in again, wondering; the sound was so 35 
peculiar, that the moment he heard it, it called up the image 
of the willow wand striking the door. He could not help a 


ADAM BEDE 


So 

little shudder, as he remembered how often his mother had 
told him of just such a sound coming as a sign when some one 
was dying. °Adam was not a man to be gratuitously super¬ 
stitious; but he had the blood of the peasant in him as well as 
5 of the artisan, and a peasant can no more help believing in a 
traditional superstition than a horse can help trembling when 
he sees a camel. Besides, he had that mental combination 
which is at once humble in the region of mystery, and keen in 
the region of knowledge: it was the depth of his reverence 
io quite as much as his hard common-sense, which gave him his 
disinclination to doctrinal religion, and he often checked 
Seth’s argumentative spiritualism by saying, ‘‘Eh, it’s a big 
mystery; thee know’st but little about it.” And so it hap¬ 
pened that Adam was at once penetrating and credulous. If 
is a new building had fallen down and he had been told that this 
was a divine judgment, he would have said, “Maybe; but the 
bearing o’ the roof and walls wasn’t right, else it wouldn’t ha’ 
come down;” yet he believed in dreams and prognostics, and 
to his dying day he bated his breath a little when he told the 
20 story of the stroke with the willow wand. I tell it as he told 
it, not attempting to reduce it to its natural elements: in our 
eagerness to explain impressions, we often lose our hold of the 
sympathy that comprehends them. 

But he had the best antidote against imaginative dread in 
2s the necessity for getting on with the coffin, and for the next 
ten minutes his hammer was ringing so uninterruptedly, that 
other sounds, if there were any, might well be overpowered. 

A pause came, however, when he had to take up his ruler, 
and now again came the strange rap, and again Gyp howled. 
30 Adam was at the door without the loss of a moment; but again 
all was still, the starlight showed there was nothing but the 
dew-laden grass in front of the cottage. 

Adam for a moment thought uncomfortably about his 
father; but of late years he had never come home at dark 
35 hours from Treddleston, and there was every reason for be¬ 
lieving that he was then sleeping off his drunkenness at the 
“Waggon Overthrown.” Besides, to Adam, the conception 


HOME AND ITS SORROWS 


5i 

of the future was so inseparable from the painful image of his 
father, that the fear of any fatal accident to him was excluded 
by the deeply-infixed fear of his continual degradation. The 
next thought that occurred to him was one that made him 
slip off his shoes and tread lightly up-stairs, to listen at the 5 
bedroom doors. But both Seth and his mother were breathing 
regularly. 

Adam came down and set to work again, saying to himself, 
“I won’t open the door again. It’s no use staring about to 
catch sight of a sound. Maybe there’s a world about us as 10 
we can’t see, but th’ ear’s quicker than the eye, and catches a 
sound from’t now and then. Some people think they get a 
sight on’t too, but they’re mostly folks whose eyes are not much 
use to ’em at anything else. For my part, I think it’s better 
to see when your perpendicular’s true, than to see a ghost.” 15 

Such thoughts as these are apt to grow stronger and strong¬ 
er as daylight quenches the candles and the birds begin to 
sing. By the time the red sunlight shone on the brass nails 
that formed the initials on the lid of the coffin, any lingering 
foreboding from the sound of the willow wand was merged in 20 
satisfaction that the work was done and the promise redeemed. 
There was no need to call Seth, for he was already moving 
overhead, and presently came down-stairs. 

“Now, lad,” said Adam, as Seth made his appearance, “the 
coffin’s done, and we can take it over to Brox’on, and be back 25 
again before half after six. I’ll take a mouthful o’ oat-cake, 
and then we’ll be off.” 

The coffin was soon propped on the tall shoulders of the two 
brothers, and they were making their way, followed close by 
Gyp, out of the little woodyard into the lane at the back of 30 
the house. It was but about a mile and a half to Broxton over 
the opposite slope, and their road wound very pleasantly along 
lanes and across fields, where the pale woodbines and the dog- 
roses were scenting the hedgerows, and the birds were twitter¬ 
ing and trilling in the tall leafy boughs of oak and elm. It was 35 
a strangely-mingled picture—the fresh youth of the summer 
morning, with its Eden-like peace and loveliness, the stalwart 





ADAM BEDE 


52 

strength of the two brothers in their rusty working clothes, 
and the long coffin on their shoulders. They paused for the 
last time before a small farmhouse outside the village of Brox- 
ton. By six o’clock the task was done, the coffin nailed down, 
5 and Adam and Seth were on their way home. They chose a 
shorter way homeward, which would take them across the 
fields and the brook in front of the house. Adam had not 
mentioned to Seth what had happened in the night, but he 
still retained sufficient impression from it himself to say— 
io “ Seth, lad, if father isn’t come home by the time we’ve had 
our breakfast, I think it’ll be as well for thee to go over to 
Treddles’on and look after him, and thee canst get me the 
brass wire I want. Never mind about losing an hour at thy 
work; we can make that up. What dost say ? ” 
i 5 “I’m willing,” said Seth. “But see what clouds have 
gathered since we set out. I’m thinking we shall have more 
rain. It’ll be a sore time for th’ haymaking if the meadows 
are flooded again. The brook’s fine and full now: another 
day’s rain ’ud cover the plank, and we should have to go 
20 round by the road.” 

They were coming across the valley now, and had entered 
the pasture through which the brook ran. 

“Why, what’s that sticking against the willow?” continued 
Seth, beginning to walk faster. Adam’s heart rose to his 
25 mouth: the vague anxiety about his father was changed into a 
great dread. He made no answer to Seth, but ran forward, 
preceded by Gyp, who began to bark uneasily; and in two 
moments he was at the bridge. 

This was what the omen meant, then! And the grey-haired 
30 father, of whom he had thought with a sort of hardness a few 
hours ago, as certain to live to be a thorn in his side, was per¬ 
haps even then struggling with that watery death! This 
was the first thought that flashed through Adam’s con¬ 
science, before he had time to seize the coat and drag out 
35 the tall heavy body. Seth was already by his side, helping 
him, and when they had it on the bank, the two sons in the 
first moments knelt and looked with mute awe at the glazed 


HOME AND ITS SORROWS 


53 


eyes, forgetting that there was need for action—forgetting 
everything but that their father lay dead before them. Adam 
was the first to speak. 

“I'll run to mother,” he said, in a loud whisper. “I’ll 
be back to thee in a minute. ” s 

Poor Lisbeth was busy preparing her sons’ breakfast, and 
their porridge was already steaming on the fire. Her kitchen 
always looked the pink of cleanliness, but this morning she 
was more than usually bent on making her hearth and break¬ 
fast-table look comfortable and inviting. io 

“The lads ’ull be fine an’ hungry,” she said, half aloud, as 
she stirred the porridge. “It’s a good step to Brox’on, an’ 
it’s hungry air o’er the hill—wi’ that heavy coffin too. Eh! 
it’s heavier now, wi’ poor Bob Tholer in’t. Howiver, I’ve 
made a drap more porridge nor common this mornin’. The 15 
feyther ’ull happen come in arter a bit. Not as he’ll ate much 
porridge. He swallers six-penn’orth o’ ale, an’ saves a hap’- 
orth o’ porridge—that’s his way o’ layin’ by money, as I’ve 
told him many a time, an’ am likely to tell him again afore 
the day’s out. Eh! poor mon, he takes it quiet enough; 20 
there’s no denyin’ that.” 

But now Lisbeth heard the heavy “thud” of a running foot¬ 
step on the turf, and, turning quickly towards the door, she 
saw Adam enter, looking so pale and overwhelmed that she 
screamed aloud and rushed towards him before he had time 25 
to speak. 

“Hush, mother,” Adam said, rather hoarsely, “don’t be 
frightened. Father’s tumbled into the water. Belike we may 
bring him round again. Seth and me are going to carry him 
in. Get a blanket and make it hot at the fire.” 30 

°In reality Adam was convinced that his father was dead, 
but he knew there was no other way of repressing his mother’s 
impetuous wailing grief than by occupying her with some ac¬ 
tive task which had hope in it. 

He ran back to Seth, and the two sons lifted the sad burden 35 
in heartstricken silence. The wide-open glazed eyes were 
grey, like Seth’s, and had once looked with mild pride on the 


ADAM BEDE 


54 

boys before whom Thias had lived to hang his head in shame. 
Seth’s chief feeling was awe and distress at this sudden snatch¬ 
ing away of his father’s soul; but Adam’s mind rushed back 
over the past in a flood of relenting and pity. When death, 
5 the great Reconciler, has come, it is never our tenderness that 
we repent of, but our severity. 


CHAPTER V 


°THE RECTOR 

Before twelve o’clock there had been some heavy storms 
of rain, and the water lay in deep gutters on the sides of the 
gravel-walks in the garden of Broxton Parsonage; the great 
Provence roses had been cruelly tossed by the wind and beaten 
by the rain, and all the delicate-stemmed border flowers had 5 
been dashed down and stained with the wet soil. A melan¬ 
choly morning—because it was nearly time hay-harvest 
should begin, and instead of that the meadows were likely to 
be flooded. 

But people who have pleasant homes get indoor enjoyments 10 
that they would never think of but for the rain. If it had not 
been a wet morning, Mr. Irw-ine would not have been in the 
dining-room playing at chess with his mother, and he loves 
both his mother and chess quite well enough to pass some 
cloudy hours very easily by their help. Let me take you into 15 
that dining-room, and show you the °Rev. Adolphus Irwine, 
Rector of Broxton, Vicar of Hayslope, and Vicar of Blythe, 
a °pluralist at whom the severest Church reformer would have 
found it diflScCdt to look sour. We will enter very softly, and 
stand still in the open doorway, without awaking the glossy- 20 
brown setter who is stretched across the hearth, with her two 
puppies beside her; or the pug, who is dozing, with his black 
muzzle aloft, like a sleepy president. 

The room is a large and lofty one, with an ample mullioned 
oriel window at one end; the walls, you see, are new, and not 25 
yet painted; but the furniture, though originally of an expen¬ 
sive sort, is old and scanty, and there is no drapery about the 
window. The crimson cloth over the large dining-table is 
very threadbare, though it contrasts pleasantly enough with 

55 


ADAM BEDE 


56 

the dead hue of the plaster on the walls; but on this cloth there 
is a massive silver waiter with a decanter of water on it, of the 
same pattern as two larger ones that are propped up on the 
sideboard with a coat of arms conspicuous in their centre, 
s You suspect at once that the inhabitants of this room have 
inherited more blood than wealth, and would not be surprised 
to find that Mr. Irwine had a finely-cut nostril and upper lip; 
but at present we can only see that he has a broad flat back 
and an abundance of powdered hair, all thrown backward and 
10 tied behind with a black ribbon—a bit of conservatism in 
costume which tells you that he is not a young man. He will 
perhaps turn round by-and-by, and in the meantime we can 
look at that stately old lady, his mother, a beautiful aged 
brunette, whose rich-toned complexion is well set off by the 
is complex wrappings of pure white cambric and lace about her 
head and neck. She is as erect in her comely 0 embonpoint as 
a statue of °Ceres; and her dark face, with its delicate aquiline 
nose, firm proud mouth, and small intense black eye, is so 
keen and sarcastic in its expression that you instinctively sub- 
20 stitute a pack of cards for the chess-men, and imagine her 
telling your fortune. The small brown hand with which she is 
lifting her queen is laden with pearls, diamonds, and tur¬ 
quoises; and a large black veil is very carefully adjusted over 
the crown of her cap, and falls in sharp contrast on the white 
25 folds about her neck. It must take a long time to dress that 
old lady in the morning! But it seems a law bf nature that 
she should be dressed so: she is clearly one of those children 
of royalty who have never doubted their right divine, and 
never met with any one so absurd as to question it. 

30 “There, Dauphin, tell me what that is!” says this mag¬ 
nificent old lady, as she deposits her queen very quietly and 
folds her arms. “ I should be sorry to utter a word disagree¬ 
able to your feelings. ” 

“Ah! you witch-mother, you sorceress! How is a Christian 
35 man to win a game off you ? I should have sprinkled the board 
with holy water before we began. You’ve not won that game 
by fair means, now, so don’t pretend it.” 


THE RECTOR 


57 


“ Yes, yes, that’s what the beaten have always said of great 
conquerors. But see, there’s the sunshine falling on the board, 
to show you more clearly what a foolish move you made with 
that pawn. Come, shall I give you another chance?” 

“No, mother, I shall leave you to your own conscience, 5 
now it’s clearing up. We must go and plash up the mud a 
little, mustn’t we, Juno?” This was addressed to the brown 
setter, who had jumped up at the sound of the voices and laid 
her nose in an insinuating way on her master’s leg. “ But I 
must go up-stairs first and see Anne. I was called away to 10 
Tholer’s funeral just when I was going before.” 

“It’s of no use, child; she can’t speak to you. Kate says 
she has one of her worst headaches this morning.” 

“Oh, she likes me to go and see her just the same; she’s 
never too ill to care about that.” 15 

If you know how much of human speech is mere purpose¬ 
less impulse or habit, you will not wonder when I tell you that 
this identical objection had been made, and had received the 
same kind of answer, many hundred times in the course of the 
fifteen years that Mr. Irwine’s sister Anne had been an invalid. 20 
Splendid old ladies, who take a long time to dress in the morn¬ 
ing, have often slight sympathy with sickly daughters. 

But while Mr. Irwine was still seated, leaning back in his 
chair and stroking Juno’s head, the servant came to the door 
and said, “If you please, sir, Joshua Rann wishes to speak with 25 
you, if you are at liberty.” 

“Let him be shown in here,” said Mrs. Irwine, taking up her 
knitting. “ I always like to hear what Mr. Rann has got to say. 
His shoes will be dirty, but see that he wipes them, Carroll.” 

In two minutes Mr. Rann appeared at the door with very 30 
deferential bows, which, however, were far from conciliating 
Pug, who gave a sharp bark, and ran across the room to re¬ 
connoitre the stranger’s legs; while the two puppies, regarding 
Mr. Rann’s prominent calf and ribbed worsted stockings 
from a more sensuous point of view, plunged and growled over 35 
them in great enjoyment. Meantime, Mr. Irwine turned 
round his chair and said— 


ADAM BEDE 


58 

“Well, Joshua, anything the matter at Hayslope, that 
you’ve come over this damp morning? Sit down, sit down. 
Never mind the dogs; give them a friendly kick. Here, Pug, 
you rascal!” 

5 It is very pleasant to see some men turn round; pleasant 
as a sudden rush of warm air in winter, or the flash of firelight 
in the chill dusk. Mr. Irwine was one of those men. He bore 
the same sort of resemblance to his mother that our loving 
memory of a friend’s face often bears to the face itself; the 
10 lines were all more generous, the smile brighter, the expression 
heartier. If the outline had been less finely cut, his face might 
have been called jolly; but that was not the right word for its 
mixture of bonhommie and distinction. 

“Thank your reverence,” answered Mr. Rann, endeavoring 
is to look unconcerned about his legs, but shaking them alter¬ 
nately to keep off the puppies; “I’ll stand, if jmu please, as 
more becoming. I hope I see you an’ Mrs. Irwine well an’ 
Miss Irwine—an’ Miss Anne, I hope’s as well as usual,” 

“Yes, Joshua, thank you. You see how blooming my 
mother looks. She beats us younger people hollow. But 
what’s the matter?” 

“Why, sir, I had to come to Brox’on to deliver some work, 
and I thought it but right to call and let you know the goins-on 
as there’s been i’ the village, such as I hanna seen i’ my time, 
25 and I’ve lived in it man and boy sixty year °come St Thomas, 
and collected th’ Easter dues for Mr. Blick before your rever¬ 
ence come into the parish, and been at the ringin’ o’ every bell, 
and the diggin’ o’ every grave, and sung i’ the quire long afore 
Bartle Massey come from nobody knows where, wi’ his coun- 
30 tersingin’ and fine anthems, as puts everybody out but him¬ 
self—one takin’ it up after another like sheep a-bleatin’ i’ th* 
fold. I know what belongs to bein’ a parish clerk, and I know 
as I should be wantin’ i’ respect to your reverence, an’ church, 
an’ king, if I was t’ allow such goins-on wi’out speakin’. I was 
*5 took by surprise, an’ knowed nothin’ on it beforehand, an’ I 
was so flustered, I was clean as if I’d lost my tools. I hanna 
slep’ more nor four hour this night as is past an’ gone; an’ 


THE RECTOR 


59 


then it was nothin’ but nightmare, as tired me worse nor 
wakin’.” 

“Why, what in the world is the matter, Joshua? Have-the 
thieves been at the church lead again?” 

“Thieves! no, sir,—an’ yet, as I may say, it is thieves, an’ 5 
a-thievin’ the church, too. It’s the Methodisses as is like to 
get th’ upper hand i’ th’ parish, if your reverence an’ his 
honour, Squire Donnithorne, doesna think well to say the 
word an’ forbid it. Not as I’m a-dictatin’ to you, sir; I’m not 
forgettin’ myself so far as to be wise above my betters. How- i& 
iver, whether I’m wise or no, that’s neither here nor there, but 
what I’ve got to say I say—as the young Methodis woman, afc 
is at Mester Poyser’s, was a-preachin’ an’ a-prayin’ on the 
Green last night, as sure as I’m a-stannin’ afore your reverence 
now.” i S 

“Preaching on the Green!” said Mr. Irwine, looking sur¬ 
prised but quite serene. “What, that pale pretty young 
woman I’ve seen at Poyser’s? I saw she was a Methodist, or 
Quaker, or something of that sort, by her dress, but I didn’t 
know she was a preacher. ” 20 

“It’s a true word as I say, sir,” rejoined Mr. Rann, com¬ 
pressing his mouth into a semicircular form, and pausing long 
enough to indicate three notes of exclamation. “ She preached 
on the Green last night; an’ she’s laid hold of Chad’s Bess, as 
the girl’s been i’ fits welly iver sin’.” 25 

“Well, Bessy Cranage is a hearty-looking lass; I dare-say 
she’ll come round again, Joshua. Did anybody else go into 
fits?” 

“No, sir, I canna say as they did. But there’s no knowin’ 
what’ll come, if we’re t’ have such preachins as that a-goin’ 30 
on ivery week—there’ll be no livin’ i’ th’ village. For them 
Methodisses make folks believe as if they take a mug o’ drink 
extry, an’ make theirselves a bit comfortable, they’ll have to 
go to hell for’t as sure as they’re born. I’m not a tipplin’ man 
nor a drunkard—nobody can say it on me—but I like a extry 35 
quart at Easter or Christmas time, as is nat’ral when we’re 
goin’ the rounds a-singin’, an’ folks offer’t you for nothin’; or 


6o 


ADAM BEDE 


when I’m a-collectin’ the dues; an’ I like a pint wi’ my pipe, 
an’ a neighbourly chat at Mester Casson’s now an’ then, for 
I was brought up i’ the Church, thank God, an’ ha’ been a 
parish clerk this two-an’-thirty year: I should know what the 
5 church religion is.” 

“Well, what’s your advice, Joshua? What do you think 
should be done?” 

“Well, your reverence, I’m not for takin’ any measures 
again’ the young woman. She’s well enough if she’d let 
io alone preachin’; an’ I hear as she’s a-goin’ away back to her 
own country soon. She’s Mr. Poyser’s own niece, an’ I donna 
wish to say what’s anyways disrespectful.o’ th’ family at th’ 
Hall Farm, as I’ve measured for shoes, little an’ big, welly 
iver sin’ I’ve been a shoemaker. But there’s that Will 
is Maskery, sir, as is the rampageousest Methodis as can be, an’ 
I make no doubt it was him as stirred up th’ young woman 
to preach last night, an’ he’ll be a-bringin’ other folks to preach 
from Treddles’on, if his comb isn’t cut a bit; an’ I think as he 
should be let know as he isna t’ have the makin’ an’ mendin’ o’ 
20 church carts an’ implemens, let alone stayin’ i’ that house 
an’ yard as is Squire Donnithorne’s.” 

“Well, but you say yourself, Joshua, that you never knew 
any one come to preach on the Green before; why should you 
think they’ll come again? The Methodists don’t come to 
25 preach in little villages like Hayslope, where there’s only a 
handful of labourers, too tired to listen to them. They might 
almost as well go and preach on the Binton Hills. Will Maskery 
is no preacher himself, I think.” 

“Nay, sir, he’s no gift at stringin’ the words together 
3owi’out book; he’d be stuck fast like a cow i’ wet clay. But 
he’s got tongue enough to speak disrespectful about’s neebors, 
for he said as I was a °blind Pharisee;—a-usin’ the Bible i’ 
that way to find nick-names for folks as are his elders an’ 
betters!—and what’s worse, he’s been heard to say very un- 
35 becomin’ words about your reverence; for I could bring them 
as ’ud swear as he called you a ‘dumb dog,’ an’ a ‘idle shep¬ 
herd.’ You’ll forgi’e me for sayin’ such things over again.” 


THE RECTOR 


6r 


“ Better not, better not, Joshua. Let evil words die as soon 
as they’re spoken. Will Maskery might be a great deal worse 
fellow than he is. He used to be a wild drunken rascal, neg¬ 
lecting his work and beating his wife, they told me; now he’s 
thrifty and decent, and he and his wife look comfortable 5 
together. If you can bring me any proof that he interferes 
with his neighbours, and creates any disturbance, I shall think 
it my duty as a clergyman and a magistrate to interfere. But 
it wouldn’t become wise people, like you and me, to be making 
a fuss about trifles, as if we thought the Church was in danger 10 
because Will Maskery lets his tongue wag rather foolishly, or 
a young woman talks in a serious way to a handful of people 
on the Green. We must ‘live and let live,’ Joshua, in religion 
as well as in other things. You go on doing your duty, 
as parish clerk and sexton, as well as you’ve always done 15 
it, and making those capital thick boots for your neigh¬ 
bours, and things won’t go far wrong in Hayslope, depend 
upon it.” 

“Your reverence is very good to say so; an’ I’m sensable as, 
you not livin’ i’ the parish, there’s more upo’ my shoulders. ” 20 

“To be sure; and you must mind and not lower the Church 
in people’s eyes by seeming to be frightened about it for a 
little thing, Joshua. I shall trust to your good sense, now, to 
take no notice at all of what Will Maskery says, either about 
you or me. You and your neighbours can go on taking your 25 
pot of beer soberly, when you’ve done your day’s work, like 
good churchmen; and if Will Maskery doesn’t like to join 
you, but to go to a prayer-meeting at Treddleston instead, let 
him; that’s no business of yours, so long as he doesn’t hinder 
you from doing what /ou like. And as to people saying a few 30 
idle words about us, we must not mind that, any more than 
the old church-steeple minds the rooks cawing about it. Will 
Maskery comes to church every Sunday afternoon, and does 
his wheelwright’s business steadily in the week-days, and as 
long as he does that he must be let alone.” 35 

“Ah, sir, but when he comes to church, he sits an’ shakes 
his head, an’ looks as sour an’ as coxy when we’re a-singin’, 


62 


ADAM BEDE 


as I should like to fetch him a rap across the jowl—God forgi’e 
me—an’ Mrs. Irwine, an’ your reverence, too, for speakin’ so 
afore you. An’ he said as our Christmas singin’ was no better 
nor the cracklin’ o’ thorns under a pot. ” 

5 “Well, he’s got a bad ear for music, Joshua. When people 
have wooden heads, you know, it can’t be helped. He won’t 
bring the other people in Hayslope round to his opinion, while 
you go on singing as well as you do. ” 

“Yes, sir, but it turns a man’s stomach t’ hear the Scripture 
io misused i’ that way. I know as much o’ the words o’ the 
Bible as he does, an’ could say the Psalms right through i’ 
my sleep if you was to pinch me; but I know better nor to 
take ’em to say my own say wi’. I might as well take the 
°Sacriment-cup home and use it at meals. ” 

15 “That’s a Very sensible remark of yours, Joshua; but, as 
1 said before- 

While Mr. Irwine was speaking, the sound of a booted step, 
and the clink of a spur, were hdard on the stone floor of the 
entrance-hall, and Joshua Rann moved hastily aside from the 
20 doorway to make room for some one who paused there, and 
said, in a ringing tenor voice, 

“Godson Arthur;—may be come in?” 

“Come in, come in, godson!” Mrs. Irwine answered, in the 
deep half-masculine tone which belongs to the vigorous old 
25 woman, and there entered a young gentlemaa in a riding- 
dress, with his right arm in a sling; whereupon followed that 
pleasant confusion of laughing interjections, and hand-shak¬ 
ings, and “How are you’s?” mingled with joyous short barks 
and wagging of tails on the part of the canine members of the 
30 family, which tells that the visitor is on the best terms with 
the visited. The young gentlemen was Arthur Donnithorne, 
known in Hayslope, variously, as “the young squire,” “the 
heir,” and “the captain.” He was only a captain in the 
Loamshire Militia; but to the Hayslope tenants he was more 
35 intensely a captain than all the young gentlemen of the same 
rank in his Majesty’s regulars—he outshone them as the 
planet Jupiter outshines the Milky Way. If you want to 


THE RECTOR 


63 

know more particularly how he looked, call to your remem¬ 
brance some tawny-whiskered, brown-locked, clear-com- 
plexioned young Englishman whom you have met with in a 
foreign town, and been proud of as a fellow-countryman— 
well-washed, high-bred, white-handed, yet looking as if he 5 
could deliver well from the left shoulder, and floor his man: 

I will not be so much of a tailor as to trouble your imagination 
with the difference of costume, and insist on the striped waist¬ 
coat, long-tailed coat, and low top-boots. 

Turning round to take a chair, Captain Donnithorne said, 10 
“ But don’t let me interrupt Joshua’s business—he has some¬ 
thing to say.” 

“Humbly begging your honour’s pardon,” said Joshua 
bowing low, “there was one thing I had to say to his reverence 
as other things had drove out o’ my head.” is 

“Out with it, Joshua, quickly!” said Mr. Irwine. 

“Belike, sir, you havena heared as Thias Bede’s dead—* 
drowned this morning, or more like overnight, i’ the Willow 
Brook, again’ the bridge right i’ front o’ the house.” 

“Ah!” exclaimed both the gentlemen at once, as if they 20 
were a good deal interested in the information. 

“An’ Seth Bede’s been to me this morning to say he wished 
me to tell your reverence as his brother Adam begged of you 
particular t’ allow his father’s grave to be dug by the White 
Thorn, because his mother’s set her heart on it, on account of 2s 
a dream as she had; an’ they’d ha’ come theirselves to ask you, 
but they’ve so much to see after with the crowner, an’ that; 
an’ their mother’s took on so, an’ wants ’em to make sure o’ 
the spot for fear somebody else should take it. An’ if your 
reverence sees well and good, I’ll send my boy to tell ’em as 
soon as 1 get home; an’ that’s why I make bold to trouble you 
wi’ it, his honour being present.” 

“To be sure, Joshua, to be sure, they shall have it. I’ll ride 
round to Adam myself, and see him. Send your boy, however, 
to say they shall have the grave, lest anything should happen as 
to detain me. And now, good morning, Joshua; go into the 
kitchen and have some ale.” 


30 


ADAM BEDE 


64 


“Poor old Thias!” said Mr. Irwine, when Joshua was gone* 
“Pm afraid the drink helped the brook to drown him. I 
should have been glad for the load to have been taken off my 
friend Adam’s shoulders in a less painful way. That fine 
s fellow has been propping up his father from ruin for the last 
five or six years.” 

“He’s a regular trump, is Adam,” said Captain Donni- 
thorne. “When I was a little fellow, and Adam was a strap¬ 
ping lad of fifteen, and taught me carpentering, I used ta 
10 think if ever I was a rich sultan, I would make Adam my 
grand-vizier. And I believe now, he would bear the exaltation 
as well as any poor wise man in an Eastern story. If ever I 
live to be a large-acred man instead of a poor devil with a 
mortgaged allowance of pocket-money, I’ll have Adam for my 
is right-hand. He shall manage my woods for me, for he seems 
to have a better notion of those things than any man I ever 
met with; and I know he would make twice the money of them 
that my grandfather does, with that miserable old Satchell to 
manage, who understands no more about timber than an old- 
20 carp. I’ve mentioned the subject to my grandfather once or 
twice, but for some reason or other he has a dislike to Adam y 
and I can do nothing. But come, your reverence, are you for 
a ride with me? It’s splendid out of doors now. We can go ta 
Adam’s together, if you like; but I want to call at the Hall 
25 Farm on my way, to look at the whelps Poyser is keeping for 
me.” 

“You must stay and have lunch first, Arthur,” said Mrs. 
Irwine. “It’s nearly two. Carroll will bring it in directly.” 

“I want to go to the Hall Farm too,” said Mr. Irwine, “ta 
so have another look at the little Methodist who is staying there. 
Joshua tells me she was preaching on the Green last night. ” 

“Oh, by Jove!” said Captain Donnithorne, laughing. 
“Why, she looks as quiet as a mouse. There’s something 
rather striking about her, though. I positively felt quite 
35 bashful the first time I saw her: she was sitting stooping over 
her sewing in the sunshine outside the house, when I rode up 
and called out, without noticing that she was a stranger, ‘ Is 


THE RECTOR 


65 

Martin Poyser at home ?’ I declare, when she got up and looked 
at me, and just said, ‘He’s in the house, I believe: I’ll go and 
call him,’ I felt quite ashamed of having spoken so abruptly 
to her. She looked like St. Catherine in a Quaker dress. It’s 
a type of face one rarely sees among our common people. ” 5 

“I should like to see the young woman, Dauphin,” said 
Mrs. Irwine. “ Make her come here on some pretext or other.” 

“I don’t know how I can manage that, mother; it will 
hardly do for me to patronise a Methodist preacher, even if 
she would consent to be patronised by an idle shepherd, as 10 
Will Maskery calls me. You should have come in a little 
sooner, Arthur, to hear Joshua’s denunciation of his neigh¬ 
bour Will Maskery. The old fellow wants me to excommu¬ 
nicate the wheelwright, and then deliver him over to the civil 
arm—that is to say, to your grandfather—to be turned out of 15 
house and yard. If I chose to interfere in this business, now, 

I might get up as pretty a story of hatred and persecution as 
the Methodists need desire to publish in the next number of 
their magazine. It wouldn’t take me much trouble to per¬ 
suade Chad Cranage and half-a-dozen other bull-headed fel- 20 
lows, that they would be doing an acceptable service to the 
Church by hunting Will Maskery out of the village with rope- 
ends and pitchforks; and then, when I had furnished them 
with half a sovereign to get gloriously drunk after their exer¬ 
tions, I should have put the climax to as pretty a farce as any 25 
of my brother clergy have set going in their parishes for the 
last thirty years.” 

“It is really insolent of the man, though, to call you an 
^idle shepherd,’ and a ‘dumb dog,’” said Mrs. Irwine: “I 
should be inclined to check him a little there. You are too 30 
easy-tempered, Dauphin.” 

“Why, mother, you don’t think it would be a good way 
of sustaining my dignity to set about vindicating myself from 
the aspersions of Will Maskery? Besides, I’m not so sure that 
they are aspersions. I am a lazy fellow, and get terribly 35 
heavy in my saddle; not to mention that I’m always spending 
more than I can afford in bricks and mortar, so that I get 


66 


ADAM BEDE 


savage at a lame beggar when he asks me for sixpence. Those 
poor lean cobblers, who think they can help to regenerate man¬ 
kind by setting out to preach in the morning twilight before 
they begin their day’s work, may well have a poor opinion of 
s me. But come, let us have our luncheon. Isn’t Kate coming 
to lunch?” 

“Miss Irwine told Bridget to take her lunch up-stairs,” 
said Carroll; “she can’t leave Miss Anne.” 

“Oh, very well. Tell Bridget to say I’ll go up and see Miss 
io Anne presently. You can use your right arm quite well, now, 
Arthur,” Mr. Irwine continued, observing that Captain 
Donnithorne had taken his arm out of the sling. 

“Yes, pretty well; but Godwin insists on my keeping it up 
constantly for some time to come. I hope I shall be able to 
15 get away to the regiment, though, in the beginning of August. 
It’s a desperately dull business being shut up at the Chase in 
the summer months, when one can neither hunt nor shoot, so 
as to make one’s self pleasantly sleepy in the evening. How¬ 
ever, we are to astonish the echoes on the 30th of July. My 
20 grandfather has given me carte blanche for once, and I promise 
you the entertainment shall be worthy of the occasion. The 
world will not see the grand epoch of my majority twice. I 
think I shall have a lofty throne for you, godmamma, or rather 
two, one on the lawn and another in the ballroom, that you 
25 may sit and look down upon us like an °01ympian goddess. ” 

“I mean to bring out my best brocade, that I wore at your 
christening twenty years ago,” said Mrs. Irwine. “Ah, I 
think I shall see your poor mother flitting about in her white 
dress, which looked to me almost like a shroud that very day; 
30 and it was her shroud only three months after; and your little 
cap and christening dress were buried with her too. She had 
set her heart on that, sweet soul! ThankTjod you take after 
your mother’s family, Arthur. If you had been a puny, wiry, 
yellow baby, I wouldn’t have stood godmother to you. I 
35 should have been sure you would turn out a Donnithorne. 
But you were such a broad-faced, broad-chested, loud-scream¬ 
ing rascal, I knew you were every inch of you a Tradgett.” 


THE RECTOR 


67 

“ But you might have been a little too hasty there, mother/* 
said Mr. Irwine, smiling. “ Don’t you remember how it was 
with Juno’s last pups? One of them was the very image of its 
mother, but it had two or three of its father’s tricks notwith¬ 
standing. Nature is clever enough to cheat even you, mother.” 5 
“Nonsense, child! Nature never makes a ferret in the shape 
of a mastiff. You’ll never persuade me that I can’t tell what 
men are by their outsides. If I don’t like a man’s looks, de¬ 
pend upon it I shall never like him. I don’t want to know 
people that look ugly and disagreeable, any more than I want 10 
to taste dishes that look disagreeable. If they make me shud¬ 
der at the first glance, I say, take them away. An ugly, pig¬ 
gish, or fishy eye, now, makes me feel quite ill; it’s like a bad 
smell. ” 

“Talking of eyes,” said Captain Donnithorne, “that re-15 
minds me that I’ve got a book I meant to bring you, god- 
mamma. It came down in a parcel from London the other 
day. I know you are fond of queer, wizard-like stories. It’s 
a volume of poems, °‘Lyrical Ballads: ’ most of them seem to be 
twaddling stuff; but the first is in a different style—°‘The 20 
Ancient Mariner’ is the title. I can hardly make head or tail 
of it as a story, but it’s a strange, striking thing. I’ll send it 
over to you; and there are some other books that you may like 
to see, Irwine—pamphlets about °Antinomianism and Evan¬ 
gelicalism, whatever they may be. I can’t think what the 25 
fellow means by sending such things to me. I’ve written 
to him, to desire that from henceforth he will send me no book 
or pamphlet on anything that ends in ism. ” 

“Well, I don’t know that I’m very fond of isms myself; 
but I may as well look at the pamphlets; they let one see what 30 
is going on. I’ve a little matter to attend to, Arthur,” con¬ 
tinued Mr. Irwine, rising to leave the room, “and then I shall 
be ready to set out with you. ” 

The little matter that Mr. Irwine had to attend to took him 
up the old stone staircase (part of the house was very old), 35 
and made him pause before a door at which he knocked gently. 
“Come in,” said a woman’s voice, and he entered a room so 


68 


ADAM BEDE 


darkened by blinds and curtains that Miss Kate, the thin 
middle-aged lady standing by the bedside, would not have had 
light enough for any other sort of work than the knitting 
which lay on the little table near her. But at present she was 
5 doing what required only the dimmest light—sponging the 
aching head that lay on the pillow with fresh vinegar. It was 
a small face, that of the poor sufferer; perhaps it had once been 
pretty, but now it was worn and sallow. Miss Kate came 
towards her brother and whispered, “ Don't speak to her; she 
to can’t bear to be spoken to to-day.” Anne’s eyes were closed, 
and her brow contracted as if from intense pain. Mr. Irwine 
went to the bedside, and took up one of the delicate hands and 
kissed it; a slight pressure from the small fingers told him that 
it was worth while to have come up-stairs for the sake of doing 
15 that. He lingered a moment, looking at her, .and then turned 
away and left the room, treading very gently—he had taken 
off his boots and put on slippers before he came up-stairs. 
Whoever remembers how many things he has declined to do 
even for himself, rather than have the trouble of putting on or 
20 taking off his boots, will not think this last detail insignificant. 

And Mr. Irwine’s sisters, as any person of family within 
ten miles of Broxton could have testified, were such stupid, 
uninteresting women! It was quite a pity handsome, clever 
Mrs. Irwine should have had such commonplace daughters. 
25 That fine old lady herself was worth driving ten miles to see, 
any day; her beauty, her well-preserved faculties, and her old- 
fashioned dignity, made her a graceful subject for conversa¬ 
tion in turn with the King’s health, the sweet new patterns 
in cotton dresses, °the news from Egypt, and Lord Dacey’s 
30 lawsuit, which was fretting poor Lady Dacey to death. But 
no one ever thought of mentioning the Miss Irwines, except 
the pooF people in Broxton village, who regarded them as deep 
in the science of medicine, and spoke of them vaguely as 
“the gentlefolks.” If any one had asked old job Dummilow 
35 who gave him his flannel jacket, he would have answered, 
“the gentlefolks, last winter;” and widow Steene dwelt much 
on the virtues of the “stuff” the gentlefolks gave her for her 


THE RECTOR 


69 

couch. Under this name, too, they were used with great effect 
as a means of taming refractory children, so that at the sight 
of poor Miss Anne's sallow face, several small urchins had a 
terrified sense that she was cognisant of all their worst misde¬ 
meanours, and knew the precise number of stones with which 5 
they had intended to hit farmer Britton’s ducks. But for all 
who saw them through a less mythical medium, the Miss 
Irwines were quite superfluous existences; inartistic figures 
crowding the canvas of life without adequate effect. Miss 
Anne, indeed, if her chronic headaches could have been 10 
accounted for by a pathetic story of disappointed love, might 
have had some romantic interest attached to her; but no such 
story had either been known or invented concerning her, and 
the general impression was quite in accordance with the fact, 
that both the sisters were old maids for the prosaic reason 15 
that they had never received an eligible offer. 

Nevertheless, to speak paradoxically, the existence of 
insignificant people has very important consequences in the 
world. It can be shown to affect the price of bread and the 
rate of wages, to call forth many evil tempers from the selfish, 20 
and many heroisms from the sympathetic, and, in other ways, 
to play no small part in the tragedy of life. And if that hand¬ 
some, generous-blooded clergyman, the Rev. Adolphus Irwine, 
had not had these two hopelessly-maiden sisters, his lot would 
have been shaped quite differently: he would very likely have 25 
taken a comely wife in his youth, and now, when his hair was 
getting grey under the powder, would have had tall sons and 
blooming daughters—such possessions, in short, as men com¬ 
monly think will repay them for all the labour they take under 
the sun. As it was—having with all his three livings no more 30 
than seven hundred a-year, and seeing no way of keeping his 
splendid mother and his sickly sister, not to reckon, a second 
sister, who was usually spoken of without any adjective, in such 
lady-like ease as became their birth and habits, # and at the 
same time providing for a family of his own—he remained, 35 
you see, at the age of eight-and-forty, a bachelor, not making 
any merit of that renunciation, but saying laughingly, if any 


70 


ADAM BEDE 


one alluded to it, that he made it an excuse for many indul¬ 
gences which a wife would never have allowed him. And per¬ 
haps he was the only person in the world who did not think 
his sisters uninteresting and superfluous; for his was one of 
5 those large-hearted, sweet-blooded natures that never know a 
narrow or a grudging thought; °epicurean, if you will, with no 
enthusiasm, no self-scourging sense of duty; but yet, as you 
have seen, of a sufficiently subtle moral fibre to have an un¬ 
wearying tenderness for obscure and monotonous suffering. 
io It was his large-hearted indulgence that made him ignore his 
mother’s hardness towards her daughters, which was the more 
striking from its contrast with her doting fondness towards 
himself: he held it no virtue to frown at irremediable faults. 

See the difference between the impression a man makes on 
15 you when you walk by his side in familiar talk, or look at 
him in his home, and the figure he makes when seen from a 
lofty historical level, or even in the eyes of a critical neighbour 
who thinks of him as an embodied system or opinion rather 
than as a man. Mr. Roe, the “travelling preacher” stationed 
20 at Treddleston, had included Mr. Irwine in a general state¬ 
ment concerning the Church clergy in the surrounding district, 
whom he described as men given up to the °lusts of the flesh 
and the pride of life; hunting and shooting, and adorning their 
own houses; asking what shall we eat, and what shall we drink, 
25 and wherewithal shall we be clothed ?—careless of dispensing 
the bread of life to their flocks, preaching at best but a carnal 
and soul-benumbing morality, and trafficking in the souls of 
men by receiving money for discharging the pastoral office 
in parishes where they did not so much as look on the faces of 
30 the people more than once a-year. The ecclesiastical historian 
too, looking into parliamentary reports of that period, finds 
honourable members zealous for the Church, and untainted 
with any sympathy for the “tribe of canting Methodists,” 
making statements scarcely less melancholy than that of Mr. 
35 Roe. And* it is impossible for me to say that Mr. Irwine was 
altogether belied by the generic classification assigned him. 
He really had no very lofty aims, no theological enthusiasm: 


THE RECTOR 


7 1 


if I were closely questioned, I should be obliged to confess that 
he felt no serious alarms about the souls of his parishioners, 
and would have thought it a mere loss of time to talk in a 
doctrinal and awakening manner to old “Feyther Taft,” or 
even to Chad Cranage the blacksmith. If he had been in the 5 
habit of speaking theoretically, he would perhaps have said 
that the only healthy form religion could take in such minds 
was that of certain dim but strong emotions, suffusing them¬ 
selves as a hallowing influence over the family affections and 
neighbourly duties. He thought the custom of baptism more 10 
important than its doctrine, and that the religious benefits the 
peasant drew from the church where his fathers worshipped 
and the sacred piece of turf where they lay buried, were but 
slightly dependent on a clear understanding of the Liturgy or 
the sermon. Clearly the Rector was not what is called in 15 
these days an “earnest” man: he was fonder of church history 
than of divinity, and had much more insight into men’s char¬ 
acters than interest in their opinions; he was neither laborious, 
nor obviously self-denying, nor very copious in almsgiving, 
and his theology, you perceive, was lax. His mental palate, 20 
indeed, was rather pagan, and found a savouriness in a quota¬ 
tion from °Sophocles or °Theocritus that was quite absent 
from any text in °Isaiah or °Amos. But if you feed your 
young setter on raw flesh, how can you wonder at its retaining 
a relish for uncooked partridge in after-life? and Mr. Irwine’s 25 
recollections of young enthusiasm and ambition were all as¬ 
sociated with poetry and ethics that lay aloof from the Bible. 

On the other hand, I must plead, for I have an affectionate 
partiality towards the Rector’s memory, that he was not 
vindictive—and some philanthropists have been so; that he 30 
was not intolerant—and there is a rumour that some zealous 
theologians have not been altogether free from that blemish; 
that although he would probably have declined °to give his 
body to be burned in any public cause, and was far from be¬ 
stowing all his goods to feed the poor, he had that charity 35 
which has sometimes been lacking to very illustrious virtue— 
he was tender to other men’s failings, and unwilling to impute 


72 


ADAM BEDE 


evil. He was one of those men, and they are not the com¬ 
monest, of whom we can know the best only by following them 
away from the market-place, the platform, and the pulpit, 
entering with them into their own homes, hearing the voice 
5 with which they speak to the young and aged about their own 
hearthstone, and witnessing their thoughtful care for the 
everyday wants of everyday companions, who take all their 
kindness as a matter of course, and not as a subject for pane- 
gyric. 

io Such men, happily, have lived in times when great abuses 
flourished, and have sometimes even been the living represen¬ 
tatives of the abuses. That is a thought which might comfort 
us a little under the opposite fact—that it is better sometimes 
not to follow great reformers of abuses beyond the threshold 
is of their homes. 

But whatever you may think of Mr. Irwine now, if you had 
met him that June afternoon riding on his grey cob, with his 
dogs running beside him—portly, upright, manly, with a good- 
natured smile on his finely-turned lips as he talked to his 
20 dashing young companion on the bay mare, you must have 
felt that, however ill he harmonised with sound theories of the 
clerical office he somehow harmonised extremely well with 
that peaceful landscape. 

See them in the bright sunlight, interrupted every now and 
2s then by rolling masses of cloud, ascending the slope from the 
Broxton side, where the tall gables and elms of the rectory 
predominate over the tiny whitewashed church. They will 
soon be in the parish of Hayslope; the grey church-tower and 
village roofs lie before them to the left, and farther on, to the 
30 right, they can just see the chimneys of the Hall Farm. 


CHAPTER VI 


THE HALL FARM 

Evidently that gate is never opened: for the long grass and 
the great hemlocks grow close against it; and if it were opened, 
it is so rusty, that the force necessary to turn it on its hinges 
would be likely to pull down the square stone-built pillars, 
to the detriment of the two stone lionesses which grin with a s 
doubtful carnivorous affability above a coat of arms sur¬ 
mounting each of the pillars. It would be easy enough, by 
the aid of the nicks in the stone pillars, to climb over the 
brick wall with its smooth stone coping; but by putting 
. our eyes close to the rusty bars of the gate, we can see the io 
house well enough, and all but the very corners of the grassy 
enclosure. 

It is a very fine old place, of red brick, softened by a pale 
powdery lichen, which has dispersed itself with happy irreg¬ 
ularity, so as to bring the red brick into terms of friendly is 
companionship with the limestone ornaments surrounding the 
three gables, the windows, and the doorplace. But the win¬ 
dows are patched with wooden panes, and the door, I think, is 
like the gate—it is never opened: how it would groan and 
grate against the stone floor if it were! For it is a solid, heavy, 20 
handsome door, and must once have been in the habit of shut¬ 
ting with a sonorous bang behind a liveried lackey, who had 
just seen his master and mistress off the grounds in a carriage 
and pair. 

But at present one might fancy the house in the early stage 25 
of a °chancery suit, and that the fruit from that grand double 
row of walnut-trees on the right hand of the enclosure would 
fall and rot among the grass, if it were not that we heard the 
booming bark of dogs echoing from great buildings at the 

73 





74 


ADAM BEDE 


back. And now the half-weaned calves that have been shel¬ 
tering themselves in a gorse-built hovel against the left-hand 
wall, come out and set up a silly answer to that terrible bark, 
doubtless supposing that it has reference to buckets of milk. 

5 Yes, the house must be inhabited, and we will see by 
whom; for imagination is a licensed trespasser: it has no fear 
of dogs, but may climb over walls and peep in at windows with 
impunity. Put your face to one of the glass panes in the 
right-hand window: what do you see? A large open fireplace, 
io with rusty dogs in it, and a bare boarded-floor; at the far end, 
fleeces of wool stacked up; in the middle of the floor, some 
empty corn-bags. That is the furniture of the dining-room. 
And what through the left-hand window? Several clothes- 
horses, a pillion, a spinning-wheel, and an old box wide open, 
15 and stuffed full of coloured rags. At the edge of this box there 
lies a great wooden doll, which, so far as mutilation is con¬ 
cerned, bears a strong resemblance to the finest Greek sculp¬ 
ture, and especially in the total loss of its nose. Near it there 
is a little chair, and the butt-end of a boy’s leather long-lashed 
20 whip. 

The history of the house is plain now. It was once the 
residence of a country squire, whose family, probably dwind¬ 
ling down to mere spinsterhood, got merged in the more ter¬ 
ritorial name of Donnithorne. It was once the Hall; it is now 
25 the Hall Farm. Like the life in some coast-town that was 
once a watering-place, and is now a port, where the genteel 
streets are silent and grass-grown, and the docks and ware¬ 
houses busy and resonant, the life at the Hall has changed its 
focus, and no longer radiates from the parlour, but from the 
30 kitchen and the farmyard. 

Plenty of life there! though this is the drowsiest time of the 
year, just before hay-harvest; and it is the drowsiest time of 
the day too, for it is close upon three by the sun, and it is 
half-past three by Mrs. Poyser’s handsome eight-day. clock. 
35 But there is always a stronger sense of life when the sun is 
brilliant after rain; and now he is pouring down his beams, 
and making sparkles among the wet straw, and lighting up 


THE HALL FARM 


75 


every patch of vivid green moss on the red tiles of the cow¬ 
shed, and turning even the muddy water that is hurrying 
along the channel to the drain into a mirror for the yellow¬ 
billed ducks, who are seizing the opportunity of getting a drink 
with as much body in it as possible. There is quite a concert 5 
of noises; the great bull-dog, chained against the stables, is 
thrown into furious exasperation by the unwary approach of a 
cock too near the mouth of his kennel, and sends forth a 
thundering bark, which is answered by two fox-hounds shut 
up in the opposite cow-house; the old top knotted hens, 10 
scratching with their chicks among the straw, set up a sym¬ 
pathetic croaking as the discomfited cock joins them; a sow 
with her brood, all very muddy as to the legs, and curled as to 
the tail, throws in some deep staccato notes; our friends the 
calves are bleating from the home croft; and, under all, a fine 15 
ear discerns the continuous hum of human voices. 

For the great barn-doors are thrown wide open, and men 
are busy there mending the harness, under the superinten¬ 
dence of Mr. Goby the “whittaw,” otherwise saddler, who 
entertains them with the latest Treddleston gossip. It is 20 
certainly rather an unfortunate day that Alick, the shepherd, 
has chosen for having the whittaws, since the morning turned 
out so wet; and Mrs. Poyser has spoken her mind pretty 
strongly as to the dirt which the extra number of men’s shoes 
brought into the house at dinnertime. Indeed, she has not 25 
yet recovered her equanimity on the subject, though it is now 
nearly three hours since dinner, and the house-floor is perfectly 
clean again; as clean as everything else in that wonderful 
house-place, where the only chance of collecting a few grains 
of dust would be to climb on the salt-coffer, and put your 30 
finger on the high mantel-shelf on which the glittering brass 
candlesticks are enjoying their summer sinecure; for at this 
time of year, of course, every one goes to bed while it is yet 
light, or at least light enough to discern the outline of objects 
after you have bruised your shins against them. Surely no- 35 
where else couid an oak clock-case and an oak table have got 
to such a polish by the hand: genuine “elbow polish,” as 


ADAM BEDE 


7 6 

Mrs. Poyser called it, for she thanked God she never had any 
of your varnish rubbish in her house. Hetty Sorrel often took 
the opportunity, when her aunt’s back was turned, of looking 
at the pleasing reflection of herself in those polished surfaces, 
s for the oak table was usually turned up like a screen, and was 
more for ornament than for use; and she could see herself 
sometimes in the great round pewter dishes that were ranged, 
on the shelves above the long deal dinner table, or in the hobs 
of the grate, which always shone like jasper. 

*o Everything was looking at its brightest at this moment, for 
1 the sun shone right on the pewter dishes, and from their re¬ 
flecting pleasant jets of light were thrown on mellow oak and 
’ bright brass;—and on a still pleasanter object than these; 

for some of the rays fell on Dinah’s finely-moulded cheek, and 
i 5 lit up her pale red hair to auburn, as she bent over the heavy 
household linen which she was mending for her aunt. No 
scene could have been more peaceful, if Mrs. Poyser, who was 
ironing a few things that still remained from the Monday’s 
wash, had not been making a frequent clinking with her iron, 
20 and moving to and fro whenever she wanted it to cool; carry¬ 
ing the keen glance of her blue-grey eye from the kitchen to 
the dairy, where Hetty was making up the butter, and from 
the dairy to the back-kitchen, where Nancy was taking the 
pies out of the oven. Do not suppose, however, that Mrs. 
25 Poyser was elderly or shrewish in her appearance; she was a 
good-looking woman, not more than eight-and-thirty, of fair 
complexion and sandy hair, well-shapen, light-footed: the 
most conspicuous article in her attire was an ample checkered 
linen apron, which almost covered her skirt; and nothing 
3 o could be plainer or less noticeable than her cap and gown, for 
there was no weakness of which she was less tolerant than 
feminine vanity, and the preference of ornament to utility. 
The family likeness between her and her niece Dinah Morris, 
with the contrast between her keenness and Dinah’s seraphic 
35 gentleness of expression, might have served a painter as an 
excellent suggestion for a °Martha and Mary. Their eyes 
were just of the same colour, but a striking test of the difference 


THE HALL FARM 


77 

in their operation was seen in the demeanour of Trip, the 
black-and-tan terrier, whenever that much-suspected dog 
unwarily exposed himself to the freezing arctic ray of Mrs. 
Poyser’s glance. °Her tongue was not less keen than her eye, 
and, whenever a damsel came within earshot, seemed to take 5 
up an unfinished lecture, as a barrel-organ takes up a tune, 
precisely at the point where it had left off. 

The fact that it was churning-day was another reason 
why it was inconvenient to have the whittaws, and why, con¬ 
sequently, Mrs. Poyser should scold Molly the housemaid with 10 
unusual severity. To all appearance Molly had got through 
her after-dinner work in an exemplary manner, had “cleaned 
herself” with great despatch, and now came to ask, submis¬ 
sively, if she should sit down to her spinning till milking-time. 
But this blameless conduct, according to Mrs. Poyser, shrouded 15 
a secret indulgence of unbecoming wishes, which she now 
dragged forth and held up to Molly’s view with cutting elo¬ 
quence. 

“Spinning, indeed! It isn’t spinning as you’d be at, I’ll 
be bound, and let you have your own way. I never knew 20 
your equals for gallowsness. To think of a gell o’ your age 
wanting to go and sit with half-a-dozen men! I’d ha’ been 
ashamed to let the words pass over my lips if I’d been you. 
And you, as have been here ever since last °Michaelmas, and 
I hired you at Treddles’on stattits, without a bit o’ character 25 
•—as I say, you might be grateful to be hired in that way to a 
respectable place; and you knew no more o’ what belongs to 
work when you come here than the °mawkin i’ the field. As 
poor a two-fisted thing as ever I saw, you know you was. Who 
taught you to scrub a floor, I should like to know? Why, 30 
you’d leave the dirt in heaps i’ the corners—anybody ’ud 
think you’d never been brought up among Christians. And 
as for spinning, why, you’ve wasted as much as your wage ’i 
the flax you’ve spoiled learning to spin. And you’ve a right to 
feel that, and not to go about as gaping and as thoughtless as 35 
if you was beholding to nobody. Comb the wool for the 
whittaws, indeed! That’s what you’d like to be doing, is it? 




ADAM BEDE 


78 

That’s the way with you—that’s the road you’d all like to go, 
headlongs to ruin. You’re never easy till you’ve got some 
sweetheart as is as big a fool as yourself; you think you’ll be 
finely off when you’re married, I daresay, and have got a 
s three-legged stool to sit on, and never a blanket to cover you, 
and a bit o’ oat-cake for your dinner, as three children are 
a-snatching at.” 

“ I’m sure I donna want t’ go wi’ the whittaws,” said Molly, 
whimpering, and quite overcome by this °Dantean picture of 
xoher future, “on’y we allays used to comb the wool for ’n 
at Mester Ottley’s; an’ so I just axed ye. I donna want to set 
eyes on the whittaws again; I wish I may never stir if I do. ” 

“Mr. Ottley’s, indeed! It’s fine talking o’ what you did 
at Mr. Ottley’s. Your missis there might like her floors 
15 dirted wi’ whittaws for what I know. There’-s no knowing 
what people wonna like—such ways as I’ve heard of! I never 
had a gell come into my house as seemed to know what clean¬ 
ing was; I think people live like pigs, for my part. And as to 
that Betty as was dairymaid at Trent’s before she come to me, 
20she’d ha’ left the cheeses without turning from week’s end 
to weeks’ end, and the dairy thralls, I might ha’ wrote my 
name on ’em, when I come down-stairs after my illness, as the 
doctor said it was inflammation—it was a mercy I got well of 
it. And to think o’ your knowing no better, Molly, and been 
25 here a-going i’ nine months, and not for want o’ talking to, 
neither—and what are you stanning there for, like a jack as is 
run down, instead o’ getting your wheel out? You’re a rare 
un for sitting down to your work a little while after it’s time 
to put by.” 

30 “ Munny, my iron’s twite told; pease put it down to warm.” 

The small chirruping voice that uttered this request came 
from a little sunny-haired girl between three and four, who, 
seated on a high chair at the end of the ironing-table, was 
arduously clutching the handle of a miniature iron with her 
35 tiny fat fist, and ironing rags with an assiduity that required 
her to put her little red tongue out as far as anatomy would 
allow. 


THE HALL FARM 


79 


“Cold, is it, my darling? Bless your sweet face!” said 
Mrs. Poyser, who was remarkable for the facility with which 
she could relapse from her official objurgatory to one of fond¬ 
ness or of friendly converse. “Never mind! Mother’s done 
her ironing now. She’s going to put the ironing things away.” 5 

“Munny, I tould ’ike to do into de barn to Tommy, to see 
de whittawd.” 

“No, no, no; Totty ’ud get her feet wet,” said Mrs. Poyser, 
carrying away her iron. “ Run into the dairy and see cousin 
Hetty make the butter.” 10 

“I tould ’ike a bit o’ pum-take,” rejoined Totty, who 
seemed to be provided with several relays of requests; at the 
same time, taking the opportunity of her momentary leisure 
to put her fingers into a bowl of starch, and drag it down, so as 
to empty the contents with tolerable completeness on to the 15 
ironing-sheet. 

“Did ever anybody see the like?” screamed Mrs. Poyser, 
running towards the table when her eye had fallen on the blue 
stream. “The child’s allays i’ mischief if your back’s turned 
a minute. What shall I do to you, you naughty, naughty 20 
gell?” 

Totty, however, had descended from her chair with great 
swiftness, and was already in retreat towards the dairy with a 
sort of waddling run, and an amount of fat on the nape of her 
neck, which made her look like the metamorphosis of a white 25 
sucking-pig. 

The starch having been wiped up by Molly’s help, and the 
ironing apparatus put by, Mrs. Poyser took up her knitting, 
which always lay ready at hand, and was the work she liked 
best, because she could carry it on automatically as she walked 30 
to and fro. But now she came and sat down opposite Dinah, 
whom she looked at in a meditative way, as she knitted her 
grey worsted stocking. 

“You look th’ image o’ your aunt Judith, Dinah, when you 
sit a-sewing. I could almost fancy it was thirty years back, 35: 
and I was a little gell at home, looking at Judith as she sat at 
her work, after she’d done the house up; only it was a little 


8o 


ADAM BEDE 


cottage, father’s was, and not a big rambling house as gets 
dirty i’ one corner as fast as you clean it in another, but for all 
that, I could fancy you was your aunt Judith, only her hair 
was a deal darker than yours, and she was stouter and broader 
5 i’ the shoulders. Judith and me allays hung together, though 
she had such queer ways, but your mother and her never could 
agree. Ah! your mother little thought as she’d have a daugh¬ 
ter just cut out after the very pattern o’ Judith, and leave her 
an orphan, too, for Judith to take care on, and bring up with 
io a spoon when she was in the graveyard at Stoniton. I allays 
said that o’ Judith, as she’d bear a pound weight any day, to 
save anybody else carrying a ounce. And she was just the 
same from the first o’ my remembering her; it made no dif¬ 
ference in her, as I could see, when she took to the Methodists, 
15 only she talked a bit different, and wore a different sort o’ cap; 
but she’d never in her life spent a penny on herself more than 
keeping herself decent.” 

“She was a blessed woman,” said Dinah; “God had given 
her a loving, self-forgetting nature, and He perfected it by 
20 grace. And she was very fond of you too, aunt Rachel. I’ve 
often heard her talk of you in the same sort of way. When 
she had that bad illness, and I was only eleven years old, she 
used to say, ‘You’ll have a friend on earth in your aunt Rach¬ 
el, if I’m taken from you; for she has a kind heart;’ and I’m 
25 sure I’ve found it so.” 

“I don’t know how, child; anybody ’ud be cunning to do 
anything for you, I think; you’re like the birds o’ th’ air, and 
live nobody knows how. I’d ha’ been glad to behave to you 
like a mother’s sister, if you’d come and live i’ this country, 
30 where there’s some shelter and victual for man and beast, 
and folks don’t live on the naked hills, like poultry a-scratchin’ 
on a gravel bank. And then you might get married to some 
decent man, and there’d be plenty ready to have you, if 
you’d only leave off that preaching, as is ten times worse than 
35 anything your aunt Judith ever did. And even if you’d 
marry Seth Bede, as is a poor wool-gathering Methodist, 
and’s never like to have a penny beforehand, I know your 


THE HALL FARM 


81 


uncle ’ud help you with a pig, and very like a cow, for he's 
allays been good-natur’d to my kin, for all they’re poor, and 
made ’em welcome to the house; and ’ud do for you, I’ll be 
bound, as much as ever he’d do for Hetty, though she’s his 
own niece. And there’s linen in the house as I could well 5 
spare you, for I’ve got lots o’ sheeting and table-clothing, and 
towelling, as isn’t made up. There’s a piece o’ sheeting I 
could give you as that squinting Kitty spun—she was a rare 
girl to spin, for all she squinted, and the children couldn't 
abide her; and, you know, the spinning’s going on constant, 10 
and there’s new linen wove twice as fast as the old wears out. 
But where’s the use o’ talking, if ye wonna be persuaded, and 
settle down like any other woman in her senses, instead o’ 
wearing yourself out with walking and preaching, and giving 
away every penny you get, so as you’ve nothing saved against is 
sickness; and all the things you’ve got i’ the world, I verily 
believe, ’ud go into a bundle no bigger nor a double cheese. 
°And all because you’ve got notions i’ your head about religion 
more nor what’s i’ the Catechism and the Prayer-book.” 

“ But not more than what’s in the Bible, aunt, ” said Dinah. 20 
“Yes, and the Bible too, for that matter,” Mrs. Poyser 
rejoined, rather sharply; “else why shouldn’t them as know 
best what’s in the Bible—the parsons and people as have got 
nothing to do but learn it—do the same as you do? But, for 
the matter o’ that, if everybody was to do like you, the world 25 
must come to a standstill; for if everybody tried to do without 
house and home, and with poor eating and drinking, and was 
allays talking as we must despise the things o’ the world, as 
you say, I should like to know where the pick o’ the .stock, and 
the corn, and the best new-milk cheeses ’ud have to go. 30 
Everybody 'ud be wanting bread made o’ tail ends, and every¬ 
body 'ud be running after everybody else to preach to ’em, 
istead o’ bringing up their families, and laying by against a 
bad harvest. It stands to sense as that can’t be the right 
religion.” 35 

“Nay, dear aunt, you never heard me say that all people 
are called to forsake their work and their families. It’s quite 


82 


ADAM BEDE 


right the land should be ploughed and sowed, and the precious 
com stored, and the things of this life cared for, and right that 
people should rejoice in their families, and provide for them, 
so that this is done in the fear of the Lord, and that they are 
5 not unmindful of the soul’s wants while they are caring for 
the body. We can all be servants of God wherever our lot is 
cast, but He gives us different sorts of work, according as He 
fits us for it and calls us to it. I can no more help spending 
my life in trying to do what I can for the souls of others, than 
io you could help running if you heard little Totty crying at the 
other end of the house; the voice would go to your heart, you 
would think the dear child was in trouble or in danger, and you 
couldn’t rest without running to help her and comfort her. ” 
“Ah,” said Mrs. Poyser, rising and walking towards the 
is door, “I know it ’ud be just the same if I was to talk to you 
for hours. You’d make me the same answer, at th’ end. I 
might as well talk to the running brook, and tell it to stan’ 
still.” 

The causeway outside the kitchen door was dry enough now 
(20 for Mrs. Poyser to stand there quite pleasantly and see what 
was going on in the yard, the grey worsted stocking making a 
steady progress in her hands all the while. But she had not 
been standing there more than five minutes before she came 
in again, and said to Dinah, in rather a flurried, awe-stricken 
25 tone— 

“If there isn’t Captain Donnithorne and Mr. Irwine a- 
coming into the yard! I’ll lay my life they’re come to speak 
about your preaching on the Green, Dinah; it’s you must 
answer ’em, for I’m dumb. I’ve said enough a’ready about 
30your bringing such disgrace upo’ your uncle’s family. I 
wouldn’t ha’ minded if you’d been Mr. Poyser’s own niece— 
folks must put up wi’ their own kin, as they put up wi’ their 
own noses—it’s their own flesh and blood. But to think of a 
niece o’ mine being cause o’ my husband’s being turned out 

35 of his farm, and me brought him no fortin but my savins-” 

“Nay, dear aunt Rachel,” said Dinah gently, “you’ve 
no cause for such fears. I’ve strong assurance that no evih 



THE HALL FARM 83 

will happen to you and my uncle and the children from any¬ 
thing I’ve done. I didn’t preach without direction.” 

“Direction! I know very well what you mean by direc¬ 
tion,” said Mrs. Poyser, knitting in a rapid and agitated 
manner. “When there’s a bigger maggot than usial in yours 
head you call it ‘direction;’ and then nothing can stir you— 
you look like the statty o’ the outside o’ Treddles’on church, 
a-starin’ and a-smilin’ whether it’s fair weather or foul. I 
hanna common patience with you.” 

By this time the two gentlemen had reached the palings, 10 
and had got down from their horses: it ^yas plain they meant 
to come in. Mrs. Poyser advanced to the door to meet them, 
curtsying low, and trembling between anger with Dinah and 
anxiety to conduct herself with perfect propriety on the 
occasion. For in those days the keenest of °bucolic minds 15 
felt a whispering awe at the sight of the gentry, such as of old 
men felt when they stood on tip-toe to watch the gods passing 
by in tall human shape. 

“Well, Mrs. Poyser, how are you after this stormy morn¬ 
ing?” said Mr. Irwine, with his stately cordiality. “Our feet 20 
are quite dry; we shall not soil your beautiful floor.” 

“Oh, sir, don’t mention it,” said Mrs. Poyser. “Will you 
and the Captain please to walk into the parlour?” 

“No, indeed, thank you, Mrs. Poyser,” said the Captain, 
looking eagerly round the kitchen, as if his eye were seeking 25 
something it could not find. “I delight in your kitchen. I 
think it is the most charming room I know. I should like 
every farmer’s wife to come and look at it for a pattern.” 

“Oh, you’re pleased to say so, sir. Pray take a seat,” said 
Mrs. Poyser, relieved a little by this compliment and the 30 
Captain’s evident good-humour, but still glancing anxiously 
at Mr. Irwine, who, she saw, was looking at Dinah and ad¬ 
vancing towards her. 

“Poyser is not at home, is he?” said Captain Donnithorne, 
seating himself where he could see along the short passage to 35 
the open dairy-door. 

“No, sir, he isn’t; he’s gone to Rosseter to see Mr. West, 






ADAM BEDE 


84 

the °factor, about the wool. But there’s, father i’ the barn, 
sir, if he’d be of any use.” 

“No, thank you; I’ll just look at the whelps and leave a 
message about them with your shepherd. I must come 
5 another day and see your husband; I want to have a consulta¬ 
tion with him about horses. Do you know when he’s likely 
to be at liberty?” 

“Why, sir, you can hardly miss him, except it’s o’ Treddles’- 
on market-day—that’s of a Friday, you know. For if he’s 
10 anywhere on the farm we can send for him in a minute. If 
we’d got rid o’ the Scantlands we should have no outlying 
fields; and I should be glad of it, for if ever anything happens 
he’s sure to be gone to the Scantlands. Things allays happen 
so contrairy, if they’ve a chance; and it’s an unnat’ral thing 
15 to have one bit o’ your farm in one county and all the rest in 
another.” 

“Ah, the Scantlands would go much better with Choyce’s 
farm, especially as he wants dairy-land and you’ve got plenty. 
I think yours is the prettiest farm on the estate, though; and 
20 do you know, Mrs. Poyser, if I were going to marry and Settle, 
I should be tempted to turn you out, and do up this fine old 
house, and turn farmer myself.” 

“Oh, sir,” said Mrs. Poyser, rather alarmed, “you wouldn’t 
like it at all. As for farming, it’s putting money into your 
25 pocket wi’ your right hand and fetching it out wi’ your left. 
As fur as I can see, it’s raising victual for other folks, and just 
getting a mouthful for yourself and your children as you go 
along. Not as you’d be like a poor man as wants to get his 
bread: you could afford to lose as much money as you liked i’ 
30 farming; but it’s poor fun losing money, I should think, 
though I understan’ it’s what the great folks i’ London play 
at more than anything. For my husband heard at market as 
°Lord Dacey’s eldest son had lost thousands upo’ thousands 
to the Prince o’ Wales, and they said my lady was going to 
35 pawn her jewels to pay for him. But you know more about 
that than I do, sir. But, as for farming, sir, I canna think as 
you’d like it; and this house—the draughts in it are enough to 


THE HALL FARM 


8 5 

cut you through, and it’s my opinion the floors up-stairs are 
very rotten, and the rats i’ the cellar are beyond anything.” 

“Why, that’s a terrible picture, Mrs. Poyser. I think I 
should be doing you a service to turn you out of such a place. 
But there’s no chance of that. I’m not likely to settle for the 5 
next twenty years, till I’m a stout gentleman of forty; and my 
grandfather would never consent to part with such good 
tenants as you.” 

“Well, sir, if he thinks so well o’ Mr. Poyser for a tenant, I 
wish you could put in a word for him to allow us some new 10 
gates for the Five closes, for my husband’s been asking and 
asking till he’s tired, and to think o’ what he’s done for the 
farm, and’s never had a penny allowed him, be the times bad 
or good. And as I’ve said to my husband often and often, 
I’m sure if the Captain had anything to do with it, it wouldn’t 15 
be so. Not as I wish to speak disrespectful o’ them as have 
got the power i’ their hands, but it’s more than flesh and blood 
’ull bear sometimes, to be toiling and striving, and up early 
and down late, and hardly sleeping a wink when you lie down 
for thinking as the cheese may swell, or the cows may slip 20 
their calf, or the wheat may grow green again i’ the sheaf— 
and after all, at th’ end o’ the year, it’s like as if you’d been 
cooking a feast and had got the smell of it for your pains.” 

Mrs. Poyser, once launched into conversation, always sailed 
along without any check from her preliminary awe of the 25 
gentry. The confidence she felt in her own powers of exposi¬ 
tion was a motive force that overcame all resistance. 

“I’m afraid I should only do harm instead of good, if I 
were to speak about the gates, Mrs. Poyser,” said the Cap¬ 
tain, “though I assure you there’s no man on the estate I 30 
would sooner say a word for than your husband. I know his 
farm is in better order than any other within ten miles of us; 
and as for the kitchen,” he added, smiling, “I don’t believe 
there’s one in the kingdon to beat it. By the by, I’ve never 
seen your dairy: I must see your dairy, Mrs. Poyser.” 35 

“Indeed, sir, it’s not fit for you to go in, for Hetty’s in the 
middle o’ making the butter, for the churning was thrown 


ADAM BEDE 


86 

late, and I’m quite ashamed.” This Mrs. Poyser said blush¬ 
ing, and believing that the Captain was really interested in her 
milk-pans, and would adjust his opinion of her to the appear¬ 
ance of her dairy. . . . . ~ , • „ 

5 “Oh, I’ve no doubt it s in capital order, lake me in, 
said the Captain, himself leading the way, while Mrs. Poyser 
followed. 


CHAPTER VII 


THE DAIRY 

The dairy was certainly worth looking at: it was a scene to 
sicken for with a sort of °calenture in hot and dusty streets— 
such coolness, such purity, such fresh fragrance of new-pressed 
cheese, of firm butter, of wooden vessels perpetually bathed in 
pure water; such soft colouring of red earthenware and creamy 5 
surfaces, brown wood and polished tin, grey limestone and 
rich orange-red rust on the iron weights and hooks and hinges. 
But one gets only a confused notion of these details when 
they surround a distractingly pretty girl of seventeen, stand¬ 
ing on little pattens and rounding her dimpled arm to lift a 10 
pound of butter out of the scale. 

Hetty blushed a deep rose-colour when Captain Donni- 
thorne entered the dairy and spoke to her; but it was not at all 
a distressed blush, for it was inwreathed with smiles and 
dimples, and with sparkles from under long curled dark eye- is 
lashes; and while her aunt was discoursing to him about the 
limited amount of milk that was to be spared for butter and 
cheese so long as the calves were not all weaned, and a large 
quantity but inferior quality of milk yielded by the short¬ 
horn, which had been bought on experiment, together with 20 
other matters which must be interesting to a young gentlemen 
who would one day be a landlord, Hetty tossed and patted her 
pound of butter with quite a self-possessed, coquettish air, 
slily conscious that no turn of her head was lost. 

There are various orders of beauty, causing men to make 25 
fools of themselves in various styles, from the desperate to 
the sheepish; but there is one order of beauty which seems 
made to turn the heads not only of men but of all intelligent 
mammals, even of women. It is beauty like that of kittens, or 

87 


88 


ADAM BEDE 


very small downy ducks making gentle rippling noises with 
their soft bills, or babies just beginning to toddle and to 
engage in conscious mischief—a beauty with which you can 
never be angry, but that you feel ready to crush for inability 
5 to comprehend the state of mind into which it throws you. 
Hetty Sorrel’s was that sort of beauty. Her aunt, Mrs. 
Poyser, who professed to despise all personal attractions, and 
intended to be the severest of mentors, continually gazed at 
Hetty’s charms by the sly, fascinated in spite of herself; and 
io after administering such a scolding as naturally flowed from 
her anxiety to do well by her husband’s niece—who had no 
mother of her own to scold her, poor thing!—she would often 
confess to her husband, when they were safe out of hearing, 
that she firmly believed, “the naughtier the little huzzy be- 
is haved, the prettier she looked.” 

°It is of little use for me to tell you that Hetty’s cheek was 
like a rose-petal, that dimples played about her pouting lips, 
that her large dark eyes hid a soft roguishness under their 
long lashes, and that her curly hair, though all pushed back 
20 under her round cap while she was at work, stole back in dark 
delicate rings on her forehead, and about her white shell-like 
ears; it is of little use for me to say how lovely was the contour 
of her pink-and-white neckerchief, tucked into her low plum- 
coloured stuff boddice, or how the linen butter-making apron, 
25 with its bib, seemed a thing to be imitated in silk by duchesses, 
since it fell in such charming lines, or how her brown stockings 
and thick-soled buckled shoes lost all that clumsiness which 
they must certainly have had when empty of her foot and 
ankle;—of little use, unless you have seen a woman who 
3 o affected you as Hetty affected her beholders, for otherwise, 
though you might conjure up the image of a lovely woman, 
she would not in the least resemble that distracting kitten¬ 
like maiden. I might mention all the divine charms of a 
bright spring day, but if you had never in your life utterly 
35 forgotten yourself in straining your eyes after the mounting 
lark, or in wandering through the still lanes when the fresh- 
opened blossoms fill them with a sacred silent beauty like 


THE DAIRY 


89 

that of fretted aisles, where would be the use of my descrip¬ 
tive catalogue? I could never make you know what I meant 
by a bright spring day. Hetty’s was a spring-tide beauty; it 
was the beauty of young frisking things, round-limbed, 
gambolling, circumventing you by a false air of innocence— 5 
the innocence of a young star-browed calf, for example, that, 
being inclined for a promenade out of bounds, leads you a 
severe steeple-chase over hedge and ditch, and only comes to 
a stand in the middle of a bog. 

And they are the prettiest attitudes and movements into 10 
which a pretty girl is thrown in making up butter—tossing 
movements that give a charming curve to the arm, and a 
sideward inclination of the round white neck; little patting 
and rolling movements with the palm of the hand, and nice 
adaptations and finishings which cannot at all be effected 15 
without a great play of the pouting mouth and the dark eyes. 
And then the butter itself seems to communicate a fresh 
charm—it is so pure, so sweet-scented; it is turned off the 
mould with such a beautiful firm surface, like marble in a pale 
yellow light! Moreover, Hetty was particularly clever at 20 
making up the butter; it was the one performance of hers that 
her aunt allowed to pass without severe criticism; so she 
handled it with all the grace that belongs to mastery. 

“I hope you will be ready for a great holiday on the thir¬ 
tieth of July, Mrs. Poyser,” said Captain Donnithorne, when 25 
he had sufficiently admired the dairy, and given several im¬ 
provised opinions on °Swede turnips and °short-horns. “You 
know what is to happen then, and I shall expect you to be 
one of the guests who come earliest and leave latest. Will you 
promise me your hand for two dances, Miss Hetty ? If I 30 
don’t get your promise now, I know I shall hardly have a 
chance, for all the smart young farmers will take care to se¬ 
cure you.” 

Hetty smiled and blushed, but before she could answer, 
Mrs. Poyser interposed, scandalised at the mere suggestion 35 
that the young squire could be excluded by any meaner 
partners. 


90 


ADAM BEDE 


“Indeed, sir, you are very kind to take that notice of her. 
And I’m sure, whenever you’re pleased to dance with her, 
she’ll be proud and thankful, if she stood still all the rest o’ 
th’ evening. ” 

s “Oh no, no, that would be too cruel to all the other young 
fellows who can dance. But you will promise me two dances, 
won’t you?” the Captain continued, determined to make 
Hetty look at him and speak to him. 

Hetty dropped the prettiest little curtsy, and stole a half- 
io shy, half-coquettish glance at him as she said— 

“Yes, thank you, sir.” 

“And you must bring all your children, you know, Mrs. 
Poyser; your little Totty, as well as the boys. I want all the 
youngest children on the estate to be there—all those who 
15 will be fine young men and women when I’m a bald old fel¬ 
low.” 

“Oh dear, sir, that ’ull be a long time first,” said Mrs. 
Poyser, quite overcome at the young squire’s speaking so 
lightly of himself, and thinking how her husband would be 
20 interested in hearing her recount this remarkable specimen 
of high-born humour. The Captain was thought to be “very 
full of his jokes,” and was a great favourite throughout the 
estate on account of his free manners. Every tenant was quite 
sure things would be different when the reins got into his 
25 hands—there was to be a °millennial abundance of new gates, 
allowances of lime, and returns of ten per cent. 

“But where is Totty to-day?” he said. “I want to see 
her.” 

“Where is the little un, Hetty?” said Mrs. Poyser. “She 
50 came in here not long ago. ” 

“I don’t know. She went into the brewhouse to Nancy, 

I think.” J 

The proud mother, unable to resist the temptation to show 
her Totty, passed at once into the back-kitchen, in search of 
35 her, not, however, without misgivings lest something should 
have happened to render her person and attire unfit for pre¬ 
sentation. 


THE DAIRY 


91 


“ And do you carry the butter to market when you’ve made 
it?” said the Captain to Hetty, meanwhile. 

“Oh no, sir; not when it’s so heavy; I’m not strong enough 
to carry it. Alick takes it on horseback. ” 

“No, I’m sure your pretty arms were never meant for such 5 
heavy weights. But you go out a walk sometimes these 
pleasant evenings, don’t you? Why don’t you have a walk 
in the °Chase sometimes, now it’s so green and pleasant? 

I hardly ever see you anywhere except at home and at church.” 

“Aunt doesn’t like me to go a-walking only when I’m going 10 
somewhere,” said Hetty. “ But I go through the Chase some¬ 
times.” 

“And don’t you ever go to see Mrs. Best, the housekeeper? 

I think I saw you once in the housekeeper’s room.” 

“It isn’t Mrs. Best, it’s Mrs. Pomfret, the lady’s-maid, as 15 
I go to see. She’s teaching me tent-stitch and the lace-mend¬ 
ing. I’m going to tea with her to-morrow afternoon. ” 

The reason why there had been space for this tete-cl-tete 
can only be known by looking into the back-kitchen, where 
Totty had been discovered rubbing a stray blue-bag against 20 
her nose, and in the same moment allowing some liberal indigo 
drops to fall on her afternoon pinafore. But now she appeared 
holding her mother’s hand—the end of her round nose rather 
shiny from a recent and hurried application of soap and water. 

“Here she is!” said the Captain, lifting her up and setting25 
her on the low stone shelf. “Here’s Totty! By the by, what’s 
her other name? She wasn’t christened Totty.” 

“Oh, sir, we call her sadly out of her name. 4 Charlotte’s her 
christened name. It’s a name 1 Mr. Poyser’s family: his 
grandmother was named Charlotte. But we began with call-30 
ing her Lotty, and now it’s got to Totty. To be sure it’s more 
like a name for a dog than a Christian child.” 

“Totty’s a capital name. Why, she looks like a Totty. 
Has she got a pocket on?” said the Captain, feeling in his own 
waistcoat pockets. 35 

Totty immediately with great gravity lifted up her frock, 
and showed a tiny pink pocket at present in a state of collapse. 


92 


ADAM BEDE 


°“It dot notin in it,” she said, as she looked down at it very 
earnestly. 

“No! what a pity! such a pretty pocket. Well, I think I’ve 
got some things in mine that will make a pretty jingle in it. 

5 Yes! I declare I’ve got five little round silver things, and hear 
what a pretty noise they make in Totty’s pink pocket.” 
Here he shook the pocket with the five sixpences in it, and 
Totty showed her teeth and wrinkled her nose in great glee; 
but, divining that there was nothing more to be got by stay- 
io ing, she jumped off the shelf and ran away to jingle her pocket 
in the hearing of Nancy, while her mother called after her, 
“Oh, for shame, you naughty gell! not to thank the Captain 
for what he’s given you. I’m sure, sir, it’s very kind of you; 
but she’s spoiled shameful; her father won’t have her said nay 
15 in anything, and there’s no managing her. It’s being the 
youngest, and th’ only gell.” 

“Oh, she’s a funny little fatty; I wouldn’t have her dif¬ 
ferent. But I must be going now, for I suppose the Rector 
is waiting for me.” 

20 With a “good-by,” a bright glance, and a bow to Hetty, 
Arthur left the dairy. But he was mistaken in imagining him¬ 
self waited for. The Rector had been so much interested in 
his conversation with Dinah, that he would not have chosen 
to close it earlier; and you shall hear now what they had been 
25 saying to each other. 


t 


CHAPTER VIII 


°A VOCATION 

Dinah, who had risen when the gentlemen came in, but still 
kept hold of the sheet she was mending, curtsied respectfully 
when she saw Mr. Irwine looking at her and advancing towards 
her. He had never yet spoken to her, or stood face to face with 
her, and her first thought, as her eyes met his, was, “What a 5 
well-favoured countenance! °Oh that the good seed might fall 
on that soil, for it would surely flourish.” The agreeable impres¬ 
sion must have been mutual, for Mr. Irwine bowed to her with 
a benignant deference, which would have been equally in place 
if she had been the most dignified lady of his acquaintance. 10 

“You are only a visitor in this neighbourhood, I think?” 
were his first words, as he seated himself opposite to her. 

“No, sir, I come from Snowfield, in Stonyshire. But my 
aunt was very kind, wanting me to have rest from my work 
there, because I’d been ill, and she invited me to come and 15 
stay with her for a while. ” 

“Ah, I remember Snowfield very well; I once had occasion 
to go there. It’s a dreary bleak place. They were building 
a cotton-mill there; but that’s many years ago now: I suppose 
the place is a good deal changed by the employment that mill 20 
must have brought.” 

“It is changed so far as the mill has brought people there, 
who get a livelihood for themselves by working in it, and 
make it better for the tradesfolks. I work in it myself, and 
have reason to be grateful, for thereby I have enough and to 25 
spare. But it’s still a bleak place, as you say, sir—very dif¬ 
ferent from this country. ” 

“You have relations living there, probably, so that you are 
attached to the place as your home?” 

93 


94 


ADAM BEDE 


“I had an aunt there once; she brought me up, for I was an 
orphan. But she was taken away seven years ago, and I have 
no other kindred that I know of, besides my aunt Poyser, who 
is very good to me, and would have me come and live in this 
5 country, which to be sure is a good land, wherein they eat 
bread without scarceness. But I’m not free to leave Snowfield 
where I was first planted, and have grown deep into it, like 
the small grass on the hill-top. ” 

“Ah, I daresay you have many religious friends and.com- 
xo panions there; you are a °Methodist—a Wesleyan, I think?” 

“Yes, my aunt at Snowfield belonged to the Society, and I 
have cause to be thankful for the privileges I have had thereby 
from my earliest childhood.” 

“And have you been long in the habit of preaching?—for 
is I understand you preached at Hayslope last night.” 

“ I first took to the work four years since, when I was twen¬ 
ty-one.” . , , 

“Your Society sanctions women s preaching, then: 

“It doesn’t forbid them, sir, when they’ve a clear call to the 
20 work, and when their ministry is owned by the conversion of 
sinners, and the strengthening of God’s people. Mrs. Fletcher 
as you may have heard about, was the first woman to preach 
in the Society, I believe, before she was married, when she was 
Miss Bosanquet; and Mr. Wesley approved of her undertaking 
25 the work. She had a great gift, and there are many others 
now living who are precious fellow-helpers in the work of the 
ministry. I understand there’s been voices raised against 
it in the Society of late, but I cannot but think their counsel 
will come tq nought. It isn’t for men to make channels for 
3 o God’s Spirit, as they make channels for the watercourses, and 
say, 4 Flow here, but flow not there. 

“But don’t you find some danger among your people— 
I don’t mean to say that it is so with you, far from it—but 
don’t you find sometimes that both men and women fancy 
35 themselves channels for God’s Spirit, and are quite mistaken, 
so that they set about a work for which they are unfit, and 
bring holy things into contempt?” 


A VOCATION 


95 


“Doubtless it is so sometimes; for there have been evil¬ 
doers among us who have sought to deceive the brethren, and 
some there are who deceive their own selves. But we are not 
without discipline and correction to put a check upon these 
things. There’s a very strict order kept among us, and the 5 
brethren and sisters watch for each other’s souls as they that 
must give account. They don’t go every one his own way 
and say, °‘Am I my brother’s keeper?”’ 

“ But tell me—if I may ask, and I am really interested in 
knowing it—how you first came to think of preaching?” 10 

“Indeed, sir, I didn’t think of it at all—I’d been used from 
the time I was sixteen to talk to the little children, and teach 
them, and sometimes I had had my heart enlarged to speak in 
class, and was much drawn out in prayer with the sick. But 
I had felt no call to preach; for when I’m not greatly wrought 15 
upon, I’m too much given to sit still and keep by myself: it 
seems as if I could sit silent all day long with the thought of 
God overflowing my soul—as the pebbles lie bathed in the 
Willow Brook. For thoughts are so great—aren’t they, sir? 
They seem to lie upon us like a deep flood; and it’s my beset- 20 
ment to forget where I am and everything about me, and lose 
myself in thoughts that I could give no account of, for I 
could neither make a beginning nor ending of them in words. 
That was my way as long as I can remember; but sometimes it 
seemed as if speech came to me without any will of my own, 25 
and words were given to me that came out as the tears come, 
because our hearts are full and we can’t help it. And those 
were always times of great blessing, though I had never 
thought it could be so with me before a congregation of people. 
But, sir, we are led on, like the little children, by a way that 30 
we know not. I was called to preach quite suddenly, and 
since then I have never been left in doubt about the work that 
was laid upon me.” 

“But tell me the circumstances—just how it was, the very 
day you began to preach.” 35 

“It was one Sunday I walked with brother Marlowe, who 
was an aged man, one of the local preachers, all the way to 


ADAM BEDE 


96 

Hetton-Deeps—that’s a village where the people get their 
living by working in the lead-mines, and where there’s no 
church nor preacher, but they live like °sheep without a 
shepherd. It’s better than twelve miles from Snowfield, so we 
s set out early in the morning, for it was summer-time; and I 
had a wonderful sense of the Divine love as we walked over 
the hills, where there’s no trees, you know, sir, as there is here, 
to make the sky look smaller, but you see the heavens stretch¬ 
ed out like a tent, and you feel the °everlasting arms around 
10 you. But before we got to Hetton, brother Marlowe was 
seized with a dizziness that made him afraid of falling, for he 
overworked himself sadly, at his years, in watching and pray¬ 
ing, and walking so many miles to speak the Word, as well as 
carrying on his trade of linen-weaving. And when we got to 
is the village, the people were expecting him, for he’d appointed 
the time and the place when he was there before, and such 
of them as cared °to hear the Word of Life were assembled on 
a spot where the cottages was thickest, so as others might be 
drawn to come. But he felt as he couldn’t stand up to preach, 
20 and he was forced to lie down in the first of the cottages we 
came to. So I went to tell the people, thinking we’d go into 
one of the houses, and I would read and pray with them. But 
as I passed along by the cottages and saw the aged and trem¬ 
bling women at the doors, and the hard looks of the men, who 
25 seemed to have their eyes no more filled with the sight of the 
Sabbath morning than if they had been dumb oxen that never 
looked up to the sky, I felt a great movement in my soul, and 
I trembled as if I was shaken by a strong spirit entering into 
my weak body. And I went to where the little flock of people 
30 was gathered together, and stepped on a low wall that was 
built against the green hillside, and I spoke the words that 
were given to me abundantly. And they all came round me 
out of all the cottages, and many wept over their sins, and 
have since been joined to the Lord. That was the beginning 
35 of my preaching, sir, and I’ve preached ever since. ” 

Dinah had let her work fall during this narrative, which she 
uttered in her usual simple way, but with that sincere. 


A VOCATION 


97 

articulate, thrilling treble, by which she always mastered her 
audience. She stooped now to gather up her sewing, and then 
went on with it as before. Mr. Irwine was deeply interested. 
He said to himself, °“He must be a miserable prig who would 
act the pedagogue here: one might as well go and lecture the 5 
trees for growing in their own shape.” 

“ And you never feel any embarrassment from the sense of 
your youth—that you are a lovely young woman on whom 
men’s eyes are fixed?” he said aloud. 

“No, I’ve no room for such feelings, and I don’t believe 10 
the people ever take notice about that. I think, sir, when 
God makes His presence felt through us, we are like the °burn- 
ing bush: Moses never took any heed what sort of bush it was 
—he only saw the brightness of the Lord. I’ve preached 
to as rough ignorant people as can be in the villages about 15 
Snowfield—men that looked very hard and wild: but they 
never said an uncivil word to me, and often thanked me 
kindly as they made way for me to pass through the midst 
of them. ” 

“ That I can believe—that I can well believe,” said Mr. 20 
Irwine, emphatically. “And what did you think of your 
hearers last night, now? Did you find them quiet and atten¬ 
tive?” 

“Very quiet, sir; but I saw no signs of any great work upon 
them, except in a young girl named Bessy Cranage, towards 25 
whom my heart yearned greatly, when my eyes first fell on 
her blooming youth, given up to folly and vanity. I had some 
private talk and prayer with her afterwards, and I trust her 
heart is touched. But I’ve noticed, that in these villages where 
the people lead a quiet life °among the green pastures and the 30 
still waters, tilling the ground and tending the cattle, there’s 
a strange deadness to the Word, as different as can be from 
the great towns, like °Leeds, where I once went to visit a holy 
woman who preaches there. It’s wonderful how rich is the 
harvest of souls up those high-w T alled streets, where you 35 
seemed to walk as in a prison-yard, and the ear is deafened 
with the sounds of worldly toil. I think may be it is because 


ADAM BEDE 


98 

the promise is sweeter when this life is so dark and weary, and 
the soul gets more hungry when the body is ill at ease. 

“Why, yes, our farm-labourers are not easily roused. They 
take life almost as slowly as the s-heep and cows. But we have 
5 some intelligent workmen about here. I daresay you know 
the Bedes; Seth Bede, by the by, is a Methodist. ” 

°“Yes, I know Seth well, and his brother Adam a little. 
Seth is a gracious young man—sincere and without offence; 
and Adam is like the °patriarch Joseph, for his great skill and 
10 knowledge, and the kindness he shows to his brother and his 
parents.” 

“Perhaps you don’t know the trouble that has just hap¬ 
pened to them? Their father, Matthias Bede, was drowned 
in the Willow Brook last night, not far from his own door. 
15 I’m going now to see Adam. ” 

“Ah, their poor aged mother!” said Dinah, dropping her 
hands, and looking before her with pitying eyes, as if she saw 
the object of her sympathy. “She will mourn heavily; for 
Seth has told me she’s of an anxious,, troubled heart. I must 
20 go and see if I can give her any help. ” 

As she rose and was beginning to fold up her work, Captain 
Donnithorne, having exhausted all plausible pretexts for 
remaining among the milk-pans, came out of the dairy, fol¬ 
lowed by Mrs. Poyser. Mr. Irwine now rose also, and, ad- 
25 vancing towards Dinah, held out his hand, and said— 

“Good-bye. I hear you are going away soon; but this will 
not be the last visit you will pay your aunt—so we shall meet 
again, I hope.” 

His cordiality towards Dinah set all Mrs. Poyser’s anxieties 
30 at rest, and her face was brighter than usual, as she said— 
“I’ve never asked after Mrs. Irwine and the Miss Irwines, 
sir; I hope they’re as well as usual.” 

“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Poyser, except that Miss Anne has 
one of her bad headaches to-day. By the by, we all liked that 
35 nice cream-cheese you sent us—my mother especially. ” 

“I’m very glad, indeed, sir. It is but seldom I make one, 
but I remembered Mrs. Irwine was fond of ’em. Please to 


A VOCATION 


99 


give my duty to her, and to Miss Kate and Miss Anne. 
They’ve never been to look at my poultry this long while, 
and I’ve got some beautiful speckled chickens, black and 
white, as Miss Kate might like to have some of amongst hers.” 

“Well, I’ll tell her; she must come and see them. Good- 5 
bye,” said the Rector, mounting his horse. 

“Just ride slowly on, Irwine,” said Captain Donnithorne, 
mounting also. “I’ll overtake you in three minutes. I’m * 
only going to speak to the shepherd about the whelps. Good¬ 
bye, Mrs. Poyser; tell your husband I shall come and have a 10 
long talk with him soon. ” 

Mrs. Poyser curtsied duly, and watched the two horses until 
they had disappeared from the yard, amidst great excitement 
on the part of the pigs and the poultry, and under the furious 
indignation of the bull-dog, who performed a °Pyrrhic dance, 15 
that every moment seemed to threaten the breaking of his 
chain. Mrs. Poyser delighted in this noisy exit; it was a fresh 
assurance to her that the farmyard was well guarded, and that 
no loiterers could enter unobserved; and it was not until the 
gate had closed behind the Captain that she turned into the 20 
kitchen again, where Dinah stood with her bonnet in her 
hand, waiting to speak to her aunt, before she set out for 
Lisbeth Bede’s cottage. 

Mrs. Poyser, however, though she noticed the bonnet, de¬ 
ferred remarking on it until she had disburdened herself of 25 
her surprise at Mr. Irwine’s behaviour. 

“Why, Mr. Irwine wasn’t angry, then? What did he say 
to you, Dinah? Didn’t he scold you for preaching?” 

“No, he was not at all angry; he was very friendly to me. 

I \yas quite drawn out to speak to him; I hardly know how, 30 
for I had always thought of him as a °worldly Sadducee.^ But 
his countenance is as pleasant as the morning sunshine.’ 

“Pleasant! and what else did y’ expect to find him but 
pleasant?” said Mrs. Poyser, impatiently, resuming her knit¬ 
ting. “I should think his countenance is pleasant indeed! 35 
and him a gentleman born, and’s got a mother like a picter. 
You may go the country round, and not find such another 


IOO 


ADAM BEDE 


woman turned sixty-six. It’s summat-like to see such a man 
as that i’ the desk of a Sunday! As I say to Poyser, it’s like 
looking at a full crop o’ wheat, or a pasture with a fine dairy 
o’ cows in it; it makes you think the world’s comfortable-like, 
s But as for such creaturs as you Methodisses run after, I’d 
as soon go to look at a lot o’ bare-ribbed runts on a common. 
Fine folks they are to tell you what’s right, as look as if they’d 
never tasted nothing better than bacon-sword and sour-cake 
i’ their lives. But what did Mr. Irwine say to you about that 
io fool’s trick o’ preaching on the Green?” 

“He only said he’d heard of it; he didn’t seem to feel any 
displeasure about it. But, dear aunt, don’t think any more 
about that. He told me something that I’m sure will cause 
you sorrow, as it does me. Thias Bede was drowned last night 
15 in the Willow Brook, and I’m thinking that the aged mother 
will be greatly in need of comfort. Perhaps I can be of use to 
her, so I have fetched my bonnet and am going to set out.” 

“Dear heart, dear heart! But you must have a cup o’ tea 
first, child,” said Mrs. Poyser, Tailing at once from the key of 
20 B with five sharps to the frank and genial C. “The kettle’s 
boiling—we’ll have it ready in a minute; and the young uns’ 
’ull be in and wanting theirs directly. I’m quite willing you 
should go and see th’ old woman, for you’re one as is allays 
welcome in trouble, Methodist or no Methodist; but, for the 
25 matter o’ that, it’s the flesh and blood folks are made on as 
makes the difference. Some cheeses are made o’ skimmed 
milk and some o’ new milk, and it’s no matter what you call 
’em, you may tell which is which by the look and the smell. 
But as to Thias Bede, he’s better out o’ the way nor in—God 
30 forgi’ me for saying so—for he’s done little this ten year but 
make trouble for them as belonged to him; and I think it 
’ud be well for you to take a little bottle o’ rum for th’ old 
woman, for I daresay she’s got never a drop o’ nothing to 
comfort her inside. Sit down, child, and be easy, for you 
35 shan’t stir out till you’ve had a cup o ? tea, and so I tell you.” 

During the latter part of this speech, Mrs. Poyser had been 
reaching down the tea-things from the shelves, and was on her 


A VOCATION 


IOI 


way towards the pantry for the loaf (followed close by Totty, 
who had made her appearance on the rattling of the tea-cups), 
when Hetty came out of the dairy relieving her tired arms by 
lifting them up, and clasping her hands at the back of her 
head. s 

“Molly,” she said, rather languidly, “just run out and get 
me a bunch of dock-leaves: the butter’s ready to pack up 
now. ” 

“D’ you hear what’s happened, Hetty?” said her aunt. 

“No; how should I hear anything?” was the answer, in a io 
pettish tone. 

“Not as you’d care much, I daresay, if you did hear; for 
you’re too feather-headed to mind if everybody was dead, so 
as you could stay up-stairs a-dressing yourself for two hours 
by the clock. But anybody besides yourself ’ud mind about 15 
such things happening to them as think a deal more of you 
than you deserve. But Adam Bede and all his kin might be 
drowned for what you’d care—you’d be perking at the glass 
the next minute. ” 

“Adam Bede—drowned?” said Hetty, letting her arms 20 
fall, and looking rather bewildered, but suspecting that her 
aunt was as usual exaggerating with a °didactic purpose. 

“No, my dear, no,” said Dinah, kindly, for Mrs. Poyser had 
passed on to the pantry without deigning more precise 
information. “Not Adam. Adam’s father, the old man, is 25 
drowned. He was drowned last night in the Willow Brook. 
Mr. Irwine has just told me about it.” 

“Oh, how dreadful!” said Hetty, looking serious, but not 
deeply affected; and as Molly now entered with the dock- 
leaves, she took them silently and returned to the dairy with- 30 
out asking further questions. 


CHAPTER IX 

hetty’s world 

While she adjusted the broad leaves that set off the pale 
fragrant butter as the primrose is set off by its nest of green, 
I am afraid Hetty was thinking a great deal more of the looks 
Captain Donnithorne had cast at her than of Adam and his 
5 troubles. Bright, admiring glances from a handsome young 
gentleman, with white hands, a gold chain, occasional regi¬ 
mentals, and wealth and grandeur immeasurable—those were 
the warm rays that set poor Hetty’s heart vibrating, and 
playing its little foolish tunes over and over again. We do not 
io hear that °Memnon’s statue gave forth its melody at all under 
the rushing of the mightiest wind, or in response to any other 
influence divine or human than certain short-lived sunbeams 
of morning; and we must learn to accommodate ourselves to 
the discovery that some of those cunningly-fashioned in¬ 
is struments called human souls have only a very limited range 
of music, and will not vibrate in the least under a touch that 
fills others with tremulous rapture or quivering agony. 

Hetty was quite used to the thought that people liked t*o 
look at her. She was not blind to the fact that young Luke 
20 Britton of Broxton came to Hayslope Church on a Sunday 
afternoon on purpose that he might see her; and that he 
would have made much more decided advances if her uncle 
Poyser, thinking but lightly of a young man whose father’s 
land was so foul as old Luke Britton’s, had not forbidden her 
25 aunt to encourage him by any civilities. She was aware, too, 
that Mr. Craig, the gardener at the Chase, was over head and 
ears in love with her, and had lately made unmistakable 
avowals in luscious strawberries and hyperbolical peas. She 
knew still better, that Adam Bede—tall, upright, clever, 


102 


HETTY’S WORLD 


103 


brave Adam Bede—who carried such authority with all the 
people round about, and whom her uncle was always delighted 
to see of an evening, saying that “Adam knew a fine sight 
more o’ the natur o’ things than those as thought themselves 
his betters”—she knew that this Adam, who was often rather 5 
stern to other people, and not much given to run after the 
lasses, could be made to turn pale or red any day by a word or 
a look from her. Hetty’s sphere of comparison was not large, 
but she couldn’t help perceiving that Adam was “something 
like” a man; always knew what to say about things, could tell 10 
her uncle how to prop the hovel, and had mended the churn in 
no time; knew,'with only looking at it, the value of the chest¬ 
nut-tree that was blown down, and why the damp came in the 
walls, and what they must do to stop the rats; and wrote a 
beautiful hand that you could read off, and could do figures 15 
in his head—a degree of accomplishment totally unknown 
among the richest farmers of that country-side. Not at all 
like that slouching Luke Britton, who, when she once walked 
with him all the way from Broxton to Hayslope, had only 
broken silence to remark that the grey goose had begun to lay. 20 
And as for Mr. Craig, the gardener, he was a sensible man 
enough, to be sure, but he was knock-kneed, and had a queer 
sort of sing-song in his talk; moreover, on the most charitable 
supposition, he must be far on the way to forty. 

Hetty was quite certain her uncle wanted her to encourage 25 
Adam, and would be pleased for her to marry him. For those 
were times when °there was no rigid demarcation of rank 
between the farmer and the respectable artisan, and on the 
home hearth, as well as in the public-house, they might be 
seen taking their jug of ale together; the farmer having 330 
latent sense of capital, and of weight in parish affairs, which 
sustained him under his conspicuous inferiority in conversa¬ 
tion. Martin Poyser was not a frequenter of public-houses, 
but he liked a friendly chat over his own home-brewed; and 
though it was pleasant to lay down the law to a stupid neigh- 3s 
bour who had no notion how to make the best of his farm, it 
was also an agreeable variety to learn something from a clever 


104 


ADAM BEDE 


fellow like Adam Bede. Accordingly, for the last three years 
—ever since he had superintended the building of the new 
barn—Adam had always been made welcome at the Hall 
Farm, especially of a winter evening, when the whole family, 
s in patriarchal fashion, master and mistress, children and 
servants, were assembled in that glorious kitchen, at well- 
graduated distances from the blazing fire. And for the last 
two years, at least, Hetty had been in the habit of hearing her 
uncle say, “Adam Bede may be working for wage now, but 
io he’ll be a master-man some day, as sure as I sit in this chair. 
Mester Burge is in the right on’t to want him to go partners 
and marry his daughter, if it’s true what they say; the woman 
as marries him ’ull have a good take, be’t °Lady-day or 
Michaelmas,”—a remark which Mrs. Poyser always followed 
15 up with her cordial assent. “Ah,” she would say, “it’s all 
very fine having a ready-made rich man, but may-happen 
he’ll be a ready-made fool; and it’s no use filling your pocket 
full o’ money if you’ve got a hole in the corner. It’ll do you 
no good to sit in a spring-cart o’ your own, if you’ve got a soft 
20 to drive you: he’ll soon turn you over into the ditch. I allays 
said I’d never marry a man as had got no brains; for where’s 
the use of a woman having brains of her own if she’s tackled 
to a °geck as everybody’s a-laughing at? She might as well 
dress herself fine to sit back’ards on a donkey.” 

25 These expressions, though figurative, sufficiently indicated 
the hent of Mrs. Poyser’s mind with regard to Adam; and 
though she and her husband might have viewed the subject 
differently if Hetty had been a daughter of their own, it was 
clear that they would have welcomed the match with Adam 
so for a penniless niece. For what could Hetty have been but a 
servant elsewhere, if her uncle had not taken her in and 
brought her up as a domestic help to her aunt, whose health 
since the birth of Totty had not been equal to more positive 
labour than the superintendence of servants and children? 
35 But Hetty had never given Adam any steady encourage¬ 
ment. Even in the moments when she was most thoroughly 
conscious of his superiority to her other admirers, she had 


HETTY’S WORLD 


105 

never brought herself to think of accepting him. She liked to 
feel that this strong, skilful, keen-eyed man was in her power, 
and would have been indignant if he had shown the least sign 
of slipping from under the yoke of her coquettish tyranny, 
and attaching himself to the gentle Mary Burge, who would 5 
have been grateful enough for the most trifling notice from 
him. “Mary Burge, indeed! such a sallow-faced girl: if she 
put on a bit of pink ribbon, she looked as yellow as a crow- 
flower, and her hair was as straight as a hank of cotton.” And 
always when Adam stayed away for several weeks from the 10 
Hall Farm, and otherwise made some show of resistance to his 
passion as a foolish one, Hetty took care to entice him back 
into the net by little airs of meekness and timidity, as if she 
were in trouble at his neglect. But as to marrying Adam, 
that was a very different affair! There was nothing in the 15 
world to tempt her to do that. Her cheeks never grew a shade 
deeper when his name was mentioned; she felt no thrill when 
she saw him passing along the causeway by the window, or 
advancing towards her unexpectedly in the footpath across the 
meadow; she felt nothing when his eyes rested on her, but the 20 
cold triumph of knowing that he loved her, and would not 
care to look at Mary Burge: he could no more stir in her the 
emotions that make the sweet intoxication of young love, than 
the mere picture of a sun can stir the spring sap in the subtle 
fibres of the plant. She saw him as he was—a poor man, with 25 
old parents to keep, who would not be able, for a long while 
to come, to give her even such luxuries as she shared in her 
uncle’s house. And Hetty’s dreams were all of luxuries: to sit 
in a carpeted parlour, and always wear white stockings: to 
have some large beautiful ear-rings, such as were all the 30 
fashion; to have °Nottingham lace round the top of her 
gown, and something to make her handkerchief smell nice, 
like Miss Lydia Donnithorne’s when she drew it out at 
church; and not to be obliged to get up early or be scolded by 
anybody. She thought, if Adam had been rich and could have 35 
given her these things, she loved him well enough to marry 
him. 


io6 


ADAM BEDE 


But for the last few weeks a new influence had come over 
Hetty—vague, atmospheric, shaping itself into no self- 
confessed hopes or prospects, but producing a pleasant nar¬ 
cotic effect, making her tread the ground and go about her 
s work in a sort of dream, unconscious of weight or effort, and 
showing her all things through a soft, liquid veil, as if she were 
living not in this solid world of brick and stone, but in a 
°beatified world, such as the sun lights up for us in the waters. 
Hetty had become aware that Mr. Arthur Donnithorne would 
io take a good deal of trouble for the chance of seeing her; that 
he always placed himself at church so as to have the fullest 
view of her both sitting and standing; that he was constantly 
finding reasons for calling at the Hall Farm, and always would 
contrive to say something for the sake of making her speak to 
15 him and look at him. The poor child no more conceived at 
present the idea that the young squire could ever be her lover, 
than a baker’s pretty daughter in the crowd, whom a young 
emperor distinguishes by an imperial but admiring smile, 
conceives that she shall be made empress. But the baker’s 
20 daughter goes home and dreams of the handsome young 
emperor, and perhaps weighs the flour amiss while she is 
thinking what a heavenly lot it must be to have him for a 
husband: and so poor Hetty had got a face and a presence 
haunting her waking and sleeping dreams; bright, soft glances 
25 had penetrated her, and suffused her life with a strange, happy 
languor. The eyes that shed those glances were really not 
half so fine as Adam’s, which sometimes looked at her with a 
sad, beseeching tenderness; but they had found a ready 
medium in Hetty’s little silly imagination, whereas Adam’s 
30 could get no entrance through that atmosphere. For three 
weeks, at least, her inward life had consisted of little else than 
living through in memory the looks and words Arthur had 
directed towards her—of little else than recalling the sen¬ 
sations with which she heard his voice outside the house, and 
35 saw him enter, and became conscious that his eyes were fixed 
on her, and then became conscious that a tall figure, looking 
down on her with eyes that seemed to touch her, was coming 


HETTY’S WORLD 


107 

nearer in clothes of beautiful texture, with an odour like that 
of a flower-garden borne on the evening breeze. Foolish 
thoughts! But all this happened, you must remember, 
nearly sixty years ago, and Hetty was quite uneducated— 
a simple farmer’s girl, to whom a gentleman with a white hand 5 
was dazzling as an Olympian god. Until to-day, she had never 
looked farther into the future than to the next time Captain 
Donnithorne would come to the Farm, or the next Sunday 
when she should see him at church; but now she thought, 
perhaps he would try to meet her when she went to the Chase 10 
to-morrow—and if he should speak to her, and walk a little 
way, when nobody was by! That had never happened yet; 
and now her imagination, instead of retracing the past, 
was busy fashioning what would happen to-morrow—where¬ 
about in the Chase she should see him coming towards her, 15 
how she should put her new rose-coloured ribbon on, which 
he had never seen, and what he would say to her to make 
her return his glance—a glance which she would be living 
through in her memory, over and over again, all the rest of 
the day. 20 

In this state of mind, how could Hetty give any feeling to 
Adam’s troubles, or think much about poor old Thias being 
drowned? Young souls, in such pleasant delirium as hers, are 
as unsympathetic as butterflies sipping °nectar; they are 
isolated from all appeals by a barrier of dreams—by invisible 25 
looks and impalpable arms. 

While Hetty’s hands were busy packing up the butter, and 
her head filled with these pictures of the morrow, Arthur 
Donnithorne, riding by Mr. Irwine’s side towards the valley 
of the Willow Brook, had also certain indistinct anticipations, 30 
running as an under-current in his mind while he was listen¬ 
ing to Mr. Irwine’s account of Dinah;—indistinct, yet strong 
enough to make him feel rather conscious when Mr. Irwine 
suddenly said— 

“What fascinated you so in Mrs. Poyser’s dairy, Arthur?35 
Have you become an amateur of damp quarries and skim- 
ming-dishes?” 


ADAM BEDE 


108 

Arthur knew the Rector too well to suppose that a clever 
invention would be of any use, so he said, with his accustomed 
frankness— 

“No, I went to look at the pretty butter-maker, Hetty 
5 Sorrel. She’s a perfect °Hebe; and if I were an artist, I would 
paint her. It’s amazing what pretty girls one sees among the 
farmers’ daughters, when the men are such clowns, that 
common round red face one sees sometimes in the men— 
all cheek and no features, like Martin Poyser’s—comes out 
io in the women of the family as the most charming °phiz imag¬ 
inable.” . u 

“Well, I have no objection to your contemplating Hetty in 
an artistic light, but I must not have you feeding her vanity, 
and filling her little noddle with the notion that she’s a great 
is beauty, attractive to fine gentlemen, or you will spoil her for a 
poor man’s wife—honest Craig’s, for example, whom I have 
seen bestowing soft glances on her. The little puss seems al¬ 
ready to have airs enough to make a husband as miserable as 
it’s a law of nature for a quiet man to be when he marries a 
20 beauty. Apropos of marrying, I hope our friend Adam will 
get settled, now the poor old man’s gone. He will only have 
his mother to keep in future, and I’ve a notion that there’s a 
kindness between him and that nice modest girl, Mary Burge, 
from something that fell from old Jonathan one day when I 
25 was talking to him. But when I mentioned the subject to 
Adam he looked uneasy, and turned the conversation. I sup¬ 
pose the love-making doesn’t run smooth, or perhaps Adam 
hangs back till he’s in a better position. He has independ¬ 
ence of spirit enough for two men—rather an excess of pride, 
30if anything.” 

“That would be a capital match for Adam. He would slip 
into old Burge’s shoes, and make a fine thing of that building 
business, I’ll answer for him. I should like to see him well 
settled in this parish; he would be ready then to act as my 
35 °grand-vizier when I wanted one. We could plan no end of 
repairs and improvements together. I’ve never seen the girl^ 
though, I think—at least I’ve never looked at her.” 


HETTY’S WORLD 


109 


“Look at her next Sunday at Church—She sits with her 
father on the left of the reading-desk. You needn’t look quite 
so much at Hetty Sorrel then. When I’ve made up my mind 
that I can’t afford to buy a tempting dog, I take no notice of 
him, because if he took a strong fancy to me, and looked lov- 5 
ingly at me, the struggle between arithmetic and inclination 
might become unpleasantly severe. I pique myself on my 
wisdom there, Arthur, and as an old fellow to whom wisdom 
has become cheap, I bestow it upon you.” 

“Thank you. It may stand me in good stead some day, 10 
though I don’t know that I have any present use for it. Bless 
me! how the brook has overflowed. Suppose we have a 
canter, now we’re at the bottom of the hill. ” 

That is the great advantage of dialogue on horseback; it 
can be merged any minute into a trot or a canter, and °one 15 
might have escaped from Socrates himself in the saddle. The 
two friends were free from the necessity of further conversa¬ 
tion till they pulled up in the lane behind Adam’s cottage. 


CHAPTER X 

DINAH VISITS LISBETH 

At five o’clock Lisbeth came down-stairs with a large key 
in her hand: it was the key of the chamber where her husband 
lay dead. Throughout the day, except in her occasional out¬ 
bursts of wailing grief, she had been in incessant movement, 
s performing the initial duties to her dead with the awe and 
exactitude that belong to religious rites. She had brought 
out her little store of bleached linen, which she had for long 
years kept in reserve for this supreme use. It seemed but 
yesterday—that time so many midsummers ago, when she 
io had told Thias where this linen lay, that he might be sure and 
reach it out for her when she died, for she was the elder of the 
two. Then there had been the work of cleansing to the strict¬ 
est purity every object in the sacred chamber, and of removing 
from it every trace of common daily occupation. The small 
is window which had hitherto freely let in the frosty moonlight 
or the warm summer sunrise on the working man’s slumber, 
must now be darkened with a fair white sheet, for this was the 
sleep which is as sacred under the bare rafters as in ceiled 
houses. Lisbeth had even mended a long-neglected and un- 
20 noticeable rent in the checkered bit of bed-curtain; for the 
moments were few and precious now in which she would be 
able to do the smallest office of respect or love for the still 
corpse, to which in all her thoughts she attributed some con¬ 
sciousness. Our dead are never dead to us until we have for- 
25 gotten them: they can be injured by us, they can be wounded; 
they know all our penitence, all our aching sense that their 
place is empty, all the kisses we bestow on the smallest relic 
of their presence. And the aged peasant-woman most of all 
believes that her dead are conscious. Decent burial was what 

no 


DINAH VISITS LIS BETH 


in 


Lisbeth had been thinking of for herself through years of 
thrift, with an indistinct expectation that she should know 
when she was being carried to the churchyard, followed by her 
husband and her sons; and now she felt as if the greatest work 
of her life were to be done in seeing that Thias was buried 5 
decently before her—under the white thorn, where once, in a 
dream, she had thought she lay in the coffin, yet all the while 
saw the sunshine above, and smelt the white blossoms that 
were so thick upon the thorn the Sunday she went to be 
churched after Adam was born. 10 

But now she had done everything that could be done to-day 
in the chamber of death—had done it all herself, with some 
aid from her sons in lifting, for she would let no one be fetched 
to help her from the village, not being fond of female neigh¬ 
bours generally; and her favourite Dolly, the old house-15 
keeper at Mr. Burge’s, who had come to condole with her in 
the morning as soon as she heard of Thias’s death, was too 
dim-sighted to be of much use. She had locked the door, and 
now held the key in her hand, as she threw herself wearily into 
a chair that stood out of its place in the middle of the house 20 
floor, where in ordinary times she would never have consented 
to sit. The kitchen had had none of her attention that day; 
it was soiled with the tread of muddy shoes, and untidy with 
clothes and other objects out of place. But what at another 
time would have been intolerable to Lisbeth’s habits of order 25 
and cleanliness, seemed to her now just what should be: it was 
right that things should look strange and disordered and 
wretched, now the old man had come to his end in that sad 
way: the kitchen ought not to look as if nothing had hap¬ 
pened. Adam, overcome with the agitations and exertions of 30 
the day after his night of hard work, had fallen asleep on a 
bench in the workshop; and Seth was in the back-kitchen 
making a fire of sticks that he might get the kettle to boil, and 
persuade his mother to have a cup of tea, an indulgence which 
she rarely allowed herself. 35 

There was no one in the kitchen when Lisbeth entered and 
threw herself into the chair. She looked round with blank 


112 


ADAM BEDE 


eyes at the dirt and confusion on which the bright afternoon’s 
sun shone dismally; it was all of a piece with the sad confusion 
of her mind—that confusion which belongs to the first hours 
of a sudden sorrow, when the poor human soul is like one who 
s has been deposited sleeping among the ruins of a vast city, 
and wakes up in dreary amazement, not knowing whether it 
is the growing or the dying day—not knowing why and whence 
came this illimitable scene of desolation, or why he too finds 
himself desolate in the midst of it. 
io At another time Lisbeth’s first thought would have been, 
“Where is Adam?” but the sudden death of her husband had 
restored him in these hours to that first place in her affections 
which he had held six-and-twenty years ago: she had forgotten 
his faults as we forget the sorrows of our departed childhood, 
is and thought of nothing but the young husband’s kindness and 
the old man’s patience. Her eyes continued to wander blank¬ 
ly until Seth came in and began to remove some of the 
scattered things, and clear the small round deal table that he 
might set out his mother’s tea upon it. 

20 “What art goin’ to do?” she said, rather peevishly. 

“I want thee to have a cup of tea, mother,” answered Seth, 
tenderly. “It’ll do thee good; and I’ll put two or three of 
these things away, and make the house look more comfortable.” 

“Comfortable! How canst talk o’ ma’in’ things com- 
2sfortable? Let a-be, let a-be. There’s no comfort for me no 
more,” she went on, the tears coming when she began to 
speak, “now thy poor feyther’s gone, as I’n washed for and 
mended, an’ got’s victual for him for thirty ’ear, an’ him 
allays so pleased wi’ iverything I done for him, an’ used to be 
30 so handy an’ do the jobs for me when I war ill an’ cumbered 
wi’ th’ babby, an’ made me the °posset an’ brought it up¬ 
stairs as proud as could be, an’ carried the lad as war as heavy 
as two children for five mile an’ ne’er grumbled, all the way 
to Warson Wake, ’cause I wanted to go an’ see my sister, as 
35 war dead an’ gone the very next Christmas as e’er come. An’ 
him to be drowned in the brook as we passed o’er the day we 
war married an’ come home together, an’ he’d made them 


DINAH VISITS LIS BETII 


113 

lots o’ shelves for me to put my plates an’ things on, an’ 
showed ’em me as proud as could be, ’cause he know’d I 
should be pleased. An’ he war to die an’ me not to know, but 
to be a-sleepin’ i’ my bed, as if I caredna nought about it. 
Eh! an’ me to live to see that! An’ us as war young folks 5 
once, an’ thought we should do rarely when we war married. 
Let a-be, lad, let a-be! I wonna ha’ no tay: I carena if I ne’er 
ate nor drink no more. When one end o’ th’ bridge tumbles 
down, where’s th’ use o’ th’ other stannin’? I may’s well die, 
an’ foller my old man. There’s no knowin’ but he’ll want me.” 10 
Here Lisbeth broke from words into moans, swaying herself 
backwards and forwards on her chair. Seth, always timid in 
his behaviour towards his mother, from the sense that he had 
no influence over her, felt it was useless to attempt to per¬ 
suade or soothe her, till this passion was past; so he contented 15 
himself with tending the back-kitchen fire, and folding up his 
father’s clothes, which had been hanging out to dry since 
morning; afraid to move about in the room where his mother 
was, lest he should irritate her further. 

But after Lisbeth had been rocking herself and moaning for 20 
some minutes, she suddenly paused, and said aloud to herself— 
“I’ll go an’ see arter Adam, for I canna think where he’s 
gotten; an’ I want him to go up-stairs wi’ me afore it’s dark, 
for the minutes to look at the corpse is like the meltin’ snow.” 

Seth overheard this, and coming into the kitchen again, as 25 
his mother rose from her chair, he said— 

“Adam’s asleep in the workshop, mother. Thee’dst bet¬ 
ter not wake him. He was o’erwrought with work and 
trouble. ” 

“Wake him? Who’s a-goin’ to wake him? I shanna wake 30 
him wi’ lookin’ at him. I hanna seen the lad this two hour— 
I’d welly forgot as he’d e’er growed up from a babby when’s 
feyther carried him.” 

Adam was seated on a rough bench, his head supported by 
his arm, which rested from the shoulder to the elbow on the 35 
long planing-table in the middle of the workshop. It seemed 
as if he had sat down for a few minutes’ rest, and had fallen 


ADAM BEDE 


114 

asleep without slipping from his first attitude of sad, fatigued 
thought. His face, unwashed since yesterday, looked pallid 
and clammy; his hair was tossed shaggily about his forehead, 
and his closed eyes had the sunken look which follows upon 
5 watching and sorrow. His brow was knit, and his whole face 
had an expression of weariness and pain. °Gyp was evidently 
uneasy, for he sat on his haunches, resting his nose' on his 
master’s stretched-out leg, and dividing the time between 
licking the hand that hung listlessly down, and glancing with 
10 a listening air towards the door. The poor dog was hungry 
and restless, but would not leave his master, and was waiting 
impatiently for some change in the scene. It was owing to this 
feeling on Gyp’s part, that when Lisbeth came into the work¬ 
shop, and advanced towards Adam as noiselessly as she could, 
15 her intention not to awake him was immediately defeated; for 
Gyp’s excitement was too great to find vent in anything short 
of a sharp bark, and in a moment Adam opened his eyes and 
saw his mother standing before him. It was not very unlike 
his dream, for his sleep had been little more than living 
20 through again, in a fevered delirious way, all that had hap¬ 
pened since daybreak, and his mother with her fretful grief 
was present to him through it all. The chief difference between 
the reality and the vision was, that in his dream Hetty was 
continually coming before him in bodily .presence—strangely 
25 mingling herself as an actor in scenes with which she had 
nothing to do. She was even by the Willow Brook; she made 
his mother angry by coming into the house; and he met her 
with her smart clothes quite wet through, as he walked in the 
rain to Treddleston, to tell the coroner. But wherever Hetty 
30 came, his mother was sure to follow soon; and when he opened 
his eyes, it was not at all startling to see her standing near him. 

“Eh, my lad, my lad!” Lisbeth burst out immediately, her 
wailing impulse returning, for grief in its freshness feels the 
need of associating its loss and its lament with every change of 
35 scene and incident, “thee’st got nobody now but thy old 
mother to torment thee and be a burden to thee: thy poor 
feyther ’nil ne’er anger thee no more; an’ thy mother may’s 


DINAH VISITS LISBETH 


n 5 

well go arter him—the sooner the better—for Fm no good 
to nobody now. One old coat ’ull do to patch another, but 
it’s good for nought else. Thee’dst like to ha’ a wife to mend 
thy clothes an’ get thy victual, better nor thy old mother. 
An’ I shall be nought but cumber, a-sittin’ i’ th’ chimney-5 
corner. (Adam winced and moved uneasily; he dreaded, of all 
things, to hear his mother speak of Hetty.) But if thy feyther 
had lived, he’d ne’er ha’ wanted me to go to make room for 
another, for he could no more ha’ done wi’out me nor one 
side o’ the scissars can do wi’out th’ other. Eh, we should ha’ 10 
been both flung away together, an’ then I shouldna ha’ seen 
this day, an’ one buryin’ ’ud ha’ done for us both.” 

Here Lisbeth paused, but Adam sat in pained silence: he 
could not speak otherwise than tenderly to his mother to-day; 
but he could not help being irritated by this plaint. It was 15 
not possible for poor Lisbeth to know how it affected Adam, 
any more than it is possible for a wounded dog to know how his 
moans affect the nerves of his master. Like all complaining 
women, she complained in the expectation of being soothed, 
and when Adam said nothing, she was only prompted to 20 
complain more bitterly. 

“I know thee couldst do better wi’out me, for thee couldst 
go where thee likedst, an’ marry them as thee likedst. But I 
donna want to say thee nay, let thee bring home who thee 
wut; I’d ne’er open my lips to find faut, for when folks is old 25 
an’ o’ no use, they may think theirsens well off to get the bit 
an’ the sup, though they’n to swallow ill words wi’t. An’ 
if thee’st set thy heart on a lass as’ll bring thee nought and 
waste all, when thee mightst ha’ them as ’ud make a man on 
thee, I’ll say nought, now thy feyther’s dead an’ drownded, 30 
for I’m no better nor an old haft when the blade’s gone.” 

Adam, unable to bear this any longer, rose silently from the 
bench, and walked out of the workshop into the kitchen. But 
Lisbeth followed him. 

“Thee wutna go up-stairs an’ see thy feyther then? Fn 35 
done everythin’ now, an’ he’d like thee to go an’ look at him, 
for he war allays so pleased when thee wast mild to him.” 


ADAM BEDE 


116 

Adam turned round at once and said, Yes, mother; let 
us go up-stairs. Come, Seth, let us go together. ” 

They went up-stairs, and for five minutes all was silence. 
Then the key was turned again, and there was a sound of 
5 footsteps on the stairs. But Adam did not come down again; 
he was too weary and worn-out to encounter more of his 
mother’s querulous grief, and he went to rest on his bed. 
Lisbeth no sooner entered the kitchen and sat down than she 
threw her apron over her head, and began to cry and moan, and 
IO rock herself as before. Seth thought, “ She will be quieter by- 
and-by, now we have been up-stairs;” and he went into the 
back-kitchen again, to tend his little fire, hoping that he 
should presently induce her to have some tea. 

Lisbeth had been rocking herself in this way for more than 
IS five minutes, giving a low moan with every forward movement 
of her body, when she suddenly felt-a hand placed gently on 
hers, and a sweet treble voice said to her, “Dear sister, the 
Lord has sent me to see if I can be a comfort to you. ’ 

Lisbeth paused, in a listening attitude, without removing 
20 her apron from her face. The voice was strange to her. 
Could it be her sister’s spirit come back to her from the dead 
after all those years? She trembled, and dared not look. 

Dinah, believing that this pause of wonder was in itself a 
relief for the sorrowing woman, said no more just yet, but 
25 quietly took off her bonnet, and then, motioning silence to 
Seth, who, on hearing her voice, had come in with a beating 
heart, laid one hand on the back of Lisbeth’s chair, and leaned 
over her, that she might be aware of a friendly presence. 

Slowly Lisbeth drew down her apron, and timidly she 
3 o opened her dim dark eyes. She saw nothing at first but a face 
—a pure, pale face, with loving grey eyes, and it was quite 
unknown to her. . Her wonder increased; perhaps it was an 
angel. But in the same instant Dinah had laid her hand on 
Lisbeth’s again, and the old woman looked down at it. It 
35 was a much smaller hand than her own, but it was not white 
and delicate, for Dinah had never worn a glove in her life, and 
her hand bore the traces of labour from her childhood up- 


DINAH VISITS LISBETH 


117 

wards. Lisbeth looked earnestly at the hand for a moment, 
and then, fixing her eyes again on Dinah’s face, said, with 
something of restored courage, but in a tone of surprise— 

“Why, ye’re a workin’ woman!” 

“Yes, I am Dinah Morris, and I work in the cotton-mill 5 
when I am at home.” 

“Ah!” said Lisbeth slowly, still wondering; “ye corned in so 
light, like the shadow on the wall, an’ spoke i’ my ear, as I 
thought ye might be a sperrit. Ye’ve got a’most the face o’ 
one as is a-sittin’ on the grave i’ Adam’s new Bible.” 10 

“I come from the Hall Farm now. You know Mrs. Poyser 
—she’s my aunt, and she has heard of your great affliction, 
and is very sorry; and I’m come to see if I can be any help to 
you in youi trouble; for I know your sons Adam and Seth, 
and I know you have no daughter; and when the clergyman 15 
told me how the hand of God was heavy upon you, °my heart 
went out towards you, and I felt a command to come and be 
to you in the place of a daughter in this grief, if you will let 
me.” 

“Ah! I know who y’ are now; y’ are a Methody, like Seth; 20 
he’s tould me on you,” said Lisbeth, fretfully, her overpower¬ 
ing sense of pain returning, now her wonder was gone. 
“Ye’ll make it out as trouble’s a good thing, like he allays 
does. But where’s the use o’ talkin’ to me a-that’n? Ye 
canna make the smart less wi’ talkin’. Ye’ll ne’er make me 25 
believe as it’s better for me not to ha’ my old man die in’s 
bed, if he must die, an’ ha’ the parson to pray by him, an’ 
me to sit by him, an’ tell him ne’er to mind th’ ill words I’ve 
gi’en him sometimes when I war angered, an’ to gi’ him a bit 
an’ a sup, as long as a bit an’ a sup he’d swallow. But eh 130 
to die i’ the cold water, an’ us close to him, an’ ne’er to know; 
an’ me a-sleepin’, as if I ne’er belonged to him no more nor if 
he’d been a journeyman tramp from nobody knows where!” 

Here Lisbeth began to cry and rock herself again; and 
Dinah said— 35 

“Yes, dear friend, your affliction is great. It would be 
hardness of heart to say that your trouble was not heavy to 


n8 


ADAM BEDE 


bear. God didn’t send me to you to make light of your sor¬ 
row, but to mourn with you, if you will let me. If you had a 
table spread for a feast, and was making merry with your 
friends, you would think it was kind to let me come and sit 
s down and rejoice with you, because you’d think I should like 
to share those good things; but I should like better to share in 
your trouble and your labour, and it would seem harder to me 
if you denied me that. You won’t send me away? You’re 
not angry with me for coming ? ” 
io “Nay, nay; angered! who said I war angered? It war good 
on you to come. An’ Seth, why donna ye get her some tay? 
Ye war in a hurry to get some for me, as had no need, but ye 
donna think o’ gettin’ ’t for them as wants it. Sit ye down; 
sit ye down. I thank you kindly for cornin’, for it’s little 
i 5 wage ye get by walkin’ through the wet fields to see an old 
woman like me. . . . Nay, I’n got no daughter o’ my own 
—ne’er had one—an’ I warna sorry, for they’re poor queechy 
things, gells is; I allays wanted to ha’ lads, as could fend for 
theirsens. An’ the lads ’ull be marryin’—I shall ha’ daughters 
20eno’, an’ too many. But now, do ye make the tay as ye like 
it, for I’n got no taste i’ my mouth this day—it’s all one what 
I swaller—it’s all got the taste o’ sorrow wi’t.” 

Dinah took care not to betray that she had had her tea, and 
accepted Lisbeth’s invitation very. readily, for the sake of 
25 persuading the old woman herself to take the food and drink 
she so much needed after a day of hard work and fasting. 

Seth was so happy now Dinah was in the house that he 
could not help thinking her presence was worth purchasing 
with a life in which grief incessantly followed upon grief; but 
30 the next moment he reproached himself—it was almost as if 
he were rejoicing in his father’s sad death. Nevertheless the 
joy of being with Dinah would triumph: it was like the in¬ 
fluence of climate, which no resistance can overcome. And 
the feeling even suffused itself over his face so as to attract his 
35 mother’s notice, while she was drinking her tea, 

“Thee may’st well talk o’ trouble bein’ a good thing, Seth, 
for thee thriv’st on’t. Thee look’st as if thee know’dst no 


DINAH VISITS LISBETH 


119 

more o’ care an’ cumber nor when thee wast a babby a-lyin’ 
awake i’ th’ cradle. For thee’dst allays lie still wi’ thy eyes 
open, an’ Adam ne’er ’ud lie still a minute when he wakened. 
Thee wast allays like a bag o’ meal as can ne’er be bruised— 
though, for the matter o’ that, thy poor feyther war just such 5 
another. But y t f’ve got the same look too” (here Lisbeth 
turned to Dinah). “I reckon it’s wi’ bein’ a Methody. Not 
as I’m a-findin’ faut wi’ ye for’t, for ye’ve no call to be fret- 
tin’, an’ somehow, ye looken sorry too. Eh! well, if the 
Methodies are fond o’ trouble, they’re like to thrive: it’s a pity 10 
they canna ha’t all, an’ take it away from them as donna like 
it. I could ha gi’en ’em plenty; for when I’d gotten my old 
man I war worreted from morn till night; and now he’s gone, 
I’d be glad for the worst o’er again.” 

“Yes,” said Dinah, careful not to oppose any feeling of 15 
Lisbeth’s, for her reliance, in her smallest words and deeds, on 
a divine guidance, always issued in that finest woman’s tact 
which proceeds from acute and ready sympathy—“yes; I 
remember, too, when my dear aunt died, I longed for the sound 
of her bad cough in the nights, instead of the silence that came 20 
when she was gone. But now, dear friend, drink this other 
cup of tea and eat a little rpore.” 

“What!” said Lisbeth, taking the cup, and speaking in a 
less querulous tone, “ had ye got no feyther and mother, then, 
as ye war so sorry about your aunt?” 25 

“No, I never knew a father or mother; my aunt brought 
me up from a baby. She had no children, for she was never 
married, and she brought me up as tenderly as if I’d been her 
own child.” 

“Eh, she’d fine work wi’ ye, I’ll warrant, bringin’ ye up30 
from a babby, an’ her a lone woman—it’s ill bringin’ up a 
°cade lamb. But I daresay ye warna franzy, for ye look as if 
ye’d ne’er been angered i’ your life. But what did ye do when 
your aunt died, an’ why didna ye come to live in this country, 
bein’ as Mrs. Poyser’s your aunt too?” 35 

Dinah, seeing that Lisbeth’s attention was attracted, told 
her the story of her early life—how she had been brought 


120 


ADAM BEDE 


up to work hard, and what sort of place Snowfield was, and 
how many people had a hard life there—all the details that 
she thought likely to interest Lisbeth. The old woman 
listened, and forgot to be fretful, unconsciously subject to the 
5 soothing influence of Dinah’s face and voice. After a while 
she was persuaded to let the kitchen be made tidy; for Dinah 
was bent on this, believing that the sense of order and quie¬ 
tude around her would help in disposing Lisbeth to join in the 
prayer she longed to pour forth at her side. Seth, meanwhile, 
iowent out to chop wood; for he surmised that Dinah would 
like to be left alone with his mother. 

Lisbeth sat watching her as she moved about in her still 
quick way, and said at last, “Ye’ve got a notion o’ cleanin’ 
up. I wouldna mind ha’in ye for a daughter, for ye wouldna 
is spend the lad’s wage i’ fine clothes an’ waste. Ye’re not like 
the lasses o’ this country-side. I reckon folks is different at 
Snowfield from what they are here.” 

“They have a different sort of life, many of ’em,” said 
Dinah; “they work at different things—- some in the mill, and 
20 many in the mines, in the villages round about. But the 
heart of man is the same everywhere, and there are the °chii- 
dren of this world and the children of light there as well as 
elsewhere. But we’ve many more Methodists there than in 
this country.” 

25 “Well, I didna know as the Methody women war like ye, 
for there’s Will Maskery’s wife, as they say’s a big Methody, 
isna pleasant to look at, at all. I’d as lief look at a tooad. 
An’ I’m thinkin’ I wouldna mind if ye’d stay an’ sleep here, 
for I should like to see ye i’ th’ house i’ th’ mornin’. But may- 
30 happen they’ll be lookin’ for ye at Mester Poyser’s.” 

“No,” said Dinah, “they don’t expect me, and I should 
like to stay, if you’ll let me.” 

“Well, there’s room; I’m got my bed laid i’ th’ little room 
o’er the back-kitchen, an’ ye can lie beside me. I’d be glad 
35 to ha’ ye wi’ me to speak to i’ th’ night, for ye’ve got a nice 
way o’ talkin’. It puts me i’ mind o’ the swallows as was 
°under the thack last ’ear, when they fust begun to sing low 


DINAH VISITS LISBETH 


121 


an’ soft-like i’ th’ mornin’. Eh, but my old man war fond o’ 
them birds! an’ so war Adam, but they’n ne’er corned again 
this ’ear. Happen they 9 re dead too.” 

“There,” said Dinah, “now the kitchen looks tidy, and 
now, dear mother—for I’m your daughter to-night, you 5 
know—I should like you to wash your face and have a clean 
cap on. Do you remember what °David did, when God took 
his child from him? While the child was yet alive he fasted 
and prayed to God to spare it, and he would neither eat nor 
drink, but lay on the ground all night, beseeching God for the 10 
child. But when he knew it was dead, he rose up from the 
ground and washed and anointed himself, and changed his 
clothes, and ate and drank; and when they asked him how it 
was that he seemed to have left off grieving now the child was 
dead, he said, ‘While the child was yet alive, I fasted and wept; 15 
for I said, Who can tell whether God will be gracious to me, 
that the child may live? But now he is dead, wherefore 
should I fast? can I bring him back again? I shall go to him, 
but he shall not return to me.’ ” 

“Eh, that’s a* true word,” said Lisbeth. “Yea, my old 20 
man wonna come back to me, but I shall go to him—the 
sooner the better. Well, ye may do as ye like wi’ me: there’s 
a clean cap i’ that drawer, an’ I’ll go i’ the back-kitchen an’ 
wash my face. An’ Seth, thee may’st reach down Adam’s 
new Bible wi’ th’ picters in, an’ she shall read us a chapter. 25 
Eh, I like them words—‘I shall go to him, but he wonna come 
back to me.’ ” 

Dinah and Seth were both inwardly offering thanks for the 
greater quietness of spirit that had come over Lisbeth. This 
was what Dinah had been trying to bring about, through ail 30 
her still sympathy and absence from exhortation. From her 
girlhood upwards she had had experience among the sick and 
the mourning, among minds hardened and shrivelled through 
poverty and ignorance, and had gained the subtlest percep¬ 
tion of the mode in which they could best be touched, and 35 
softened into willingness to receive words of spiritual con¬ 
solation or warning. As Dinah expressed it, “she was never 


122 


ADAM BEDE 


left to herself; but it was always given her to keep silence and 
when to speak. ” And do we not all agree to call rapid thought 
and noble impulse by the name of inspiration? °After our 
subtlest analysis of the mental process, we must still say, as 
5 Dinah did, that our highest thoughts and our best deeds are 
all given to us. 

And so there was earnest prayer—there was faith, love, and 
hope pouring itself forth that evening in the little kitchen. 
And poor aged fretful Lisbeth, without grasping any distinct 
io idea, without going through any course of religious emotions, 
felt a vague sense of goodness and love, and of something 
right lying underneath and beyond all the sorrowing life. 
She couldn’t understand the sorrow; but, for these moments, 
under the subduing influence of Dinah’s spirit, she felt that 
is she must be patient and still. 


CHAPTER XI 


IN THE COTTAGE 

It was but half-past four the next morning, when Dinah, 
tired of lying awake listening to the birds, and watching the 
growing light through the little window in the garret roof, 
rose and began to dress herself very quietly, lest she should 
disturb Lisbeth. But already some one else was astir in the 5 
house, and had gone down-stairs, preceded by Gyp. The 
dog’s pattering step was a sure sign that it was Adam who 
went down; but Dinah was not aware of this, and she thought 
it was more likely to be Seth, for he had told her how Adam 
had stayed up working the night before. Seth, however, had 10 
only just awakened at the sound of the opening door. The 
exciting influence of the previous day, heightened at last by 
Dinah’s unexpected presence, had not been counteracted by 
any bodily weariness, for he had not done his ordinary amount 
of hard work; and so when he went to bed, it was not till he 15 
had tired himself with hours of tossing wakefulness, that 
drowsiness came, and led on a heavier morning sleep than was 
usual with him. 

But Adam had been refreshed by his long rest, and with his 
habitual impatience of mere passivity, he was eager to begin 20 
the new day, and subdue sadness by his strong will and strong 
arm. The white mist lay in the valley; it was going to be a 
bright warm day, and he would start to work again when he 
had had his breakfast. 

°“There’s nothing but w'hat’s bearable as long as a man 25 
can work,” he said to himself: “the natur o’ things doesn’t 
change, though it seems as if one’s own life was nothing but 
change. The square o’ four is sixteen, and you must length¬ 
en your lever in proportion to your weight, is as true when a 

123 


124 


ADAM BEDE 


man’s miserable as when he’s happy; and the best o’ work¬ 
ing is, it gives you a grip hold o’ things outside your own 
lot.” 

As he dashed the cold water over his head and face, he felt 
5 completely himself again, and with his black eyes as keen as 
ever, and his thick black hair all glistening with the fresh 
moisture, he went into the workshop to look out the wood for 
his father’s coffin, intending that he and Seth should carry it 
with them to Jonathan Burge’s and have the coffin made by 
io one of the workmen there, so that his mother might not see 
and hear the sad task going forward at home. 

He had just gone into the workshop, when his quick ear 
detected a light rapid foot on the stairs—certainly not his 
mother’s. He had been in bed and asleep when Dinah had 
i 5 come in, in the evening, and now he wondered whose step 
this could be. A foolish thought came, and moved him strang¬ 
ely. As if it could be Hetty! She was the last person likely 
to be in the house. And yet he felt reluctant to go and look, 
and have the clear proof that it was some one else. He stood 
20 leaning on a plank he had taken hold of, listening to sounds 
which his imagination interpreted for him so pleasantly, that 
the keen strong face became suffused with a timid tender¬ 
ness. The light footstep moved about the kitchen, followed 
by the sound of the sweeping brush, hardly making so much 
25 noise as the lightest breeze that chases the autumn leaves 
along the dusty path; afid Adam’s imagination saw a dimpled 
face, with dark bright eyes and roguish smiles, looking back¬ 
ward at this brush, and a rounded figure just leaning a little 
to clasp the handle. A very foolish thought — it could not be 
30 Hetty; but the only way of dismissing such nonsense from his 
head was to go and see who it was, for his fancy only got nearer 
and nearer to belief while he stood there listening. He loosed 
the plank, and went to the kitchen door. 

“How do you do, Adam Bede?” said Dinah, in her calm 
35 treble, pausing from her sweeping, and fixing her mild grave 
eyes upon him. “I trust you feel rested and strengthened 
again °to bear the burthen and heat of the day.” 


IN THE COTTAGE 


I2S 

It was like dreaming of the sunshine, and awaking in the 
moonlight. Adam had seen Dinah several times, but always 
at the Hall Farm, where he was not very vividly conscious 
of any woman’s presence except Hetty’s, and he had only in 
the last day or two begun to suspect that Seth was in love 5 
with her, so that his attention had not hitherto been drawn 
towards her for his brother’s sake. But now her slim figure, 
her plain black gown, and her pale serene face, impressed him 
with all the force that belongs to a reality contrasted with a 
preoccupying fancy. For the first moment or two he made no 10 
answer, but looked at her with the concentrated, examining 
glance which a man gives to an object in which he has sud¬ 
denly begun to be interested. Dinah, for the first time in her 
life, felt a painful self-consciousness; there was something 
in the dark penetrating glance of this strong man so different 15 
from the mildness and timidity of his brother Seth. A faint 
blush came, which deepened as she wondered at it. This 
blush recalled Adam from his forgetfulness. 

“I was quite taken by surprise; it was very good of you to 
come and see my mother in her trouble,” he said, in a gentle 20 
grateful tone, for his quick mind told him at once how she 
came to be there. “I hope my mother was thankful to have 
you,” he added, wondering rather anxiously what had been 
Dinah’s reception. 

“Yes,” said Dinah, resuming her work, “she seemed 25 
greatly comforted after a while, and she’s had a good deal of 
rest in the night, by times. She was fast asleep when I left 
her.” 

“Who was it took the news to the Hall Farm?” said Adam, 
his thoughts reverting to some one there; he wondered whether 30 
she had felt anything about it. 

“It was Mr. Irwine, the clergyman, told me, and my aunt 
was grieved for your mother when she heard it, and wanted 
me to come; and so is my uncle, I’m sure, now he’s heard it, 
but he was gone out to Rosseter all yesterday. They’ll look 3 $ 
for you there as soon as you’ve got time to go, for there’s 
nobody round that hearth but what’s glad to see you.” 


126 


ADAM BEDE 


Dinah, with her sympathetic divination, knew quite well 
that Adam was longing to hear if Hetty had said anything 
about their trouble; she was too rigorously truthful for benev¬ 
olent invention, but she had contrived to say something in 
5 which Hetty was tacitly included. Love has a way of cheating 
itself consciously, like a child who plays at solitary hide-and- 
seek; it is pleased with assurances that it all the while dis¬ 
believes. Adam liked what Dinah had said so much that his 
mind was directly full of the next visit he should pay to the 
ioHall Farm, when Hetty would perhaps behave more kindly 
to him than she had ever done before. 

“But you won’t be there yourself any longer?” he said 
to Dinah. 

“No, I go back to Snowfield on Saturday, and I shall have 
15 to set out to Treddleston early, to be in time for the Oak- 
bourne carrier. So I must go back to the farm to-night, that 
I may have the last day with my aunt and her children. But 
I can stay here all to-day, if your mother would like me; and 
her heart seemed inclined towards me last night.” 

20 “Ah, then, she’s sure to want you to-day. If mother takes 
to people at the beginning, she’s sure to get fond of ’em; but 
she’s a strange way of not liking young women. Though, to 
be sure,” Adam went on, smiling, “her not liking other young 
women is no reason why she shouldn’t like you.” 

25 Hitherto Gyp had been assisting at this conversation in 
motionless silence, seated on his haunches, and alternately 
looking up in his master’s face to watch its expression, and 
observing Dinah’s movements about the kitchen. The kind 
smile with which Adam uttered the last words was apparently 
30 decisive with Gyp of the light in which the stranger was to be 
regarded, and as she turned round after putting aside her 
sweeping-brush, he trotted towards her, and put up his muz¬ 
zle against her hand in a friendly way. 

“You see Gyp bids you welcome,” said Adam, “and he’s 
35 very slow to welcome strangers. ” 

“Poor dog!” said Dinah, patting the rough grey coat, 
“I’ve a strange feeling about the dumb things as if they 


IN THE COTTAGE 


12 7 


wanted to speak, and it was a trouble to ’em because they 
couldn’t. I can’t help being sorry for the dogs always, 
though perhaps there’s no need. But they may well have 
more in them than they know how to make us understand, 
for we can’t say half what we feel, with all our words. ” 5 

Seth came down now, and was pleased to find Adam talking 
with Dinah; he wanted Adam to know how much better she 
was than all other women. But after a few words of greeting, 
Adam drew him into the workshop to consult about the coffin, 
and Dinah went on with her cleaning. 10 

By six o’clock they were all at breakfast with Lisbeth in a 
kitchen as clean as she could have made it herself. The win¬ 
dow and door were open, and the morning air brought with it 
a mingled scent of southernwood, thyme, and sweetbriar from 
the patch of garden by the side of the cottage. Dinah did 15 
not sit down at first, but moved about, serving the others 
with the warm porridge and the toasted oat-cake, which she 
had got ready in the usual way, for she had asked Seth to tell 
her just what his mother gave them for breakfast. Lisbeth 
had been unusually silent since she came down-stairs, appar- 20 
cntly requiring some time to adjust her ideas to a state of 
things in which she came down like a lady to find all the work 
done, and sat still to be waited on. Her new sensations seemed 
to exclude the remembrance of her grief. At last, after tast¬ 
ing the porridge, she broke silence: 25 

“Ye might ha’ made the parridge worse,” she said to 
Dinah; “I can ate it wi’out its turnin’ my stomach. It might 
ha’ been a trifle thicker an’ no harm, an’ I allays putten a 
sprig o’ mint in mysen; but how’s ye t’ know that? The lads 
arena like to get folks as ’ll make their parridge as I’n made 30 
it for ’em; it’s well if they get onybody as ’ll make parridge at 
all. But ye might do, wi’ a bit o’ showin’; for ye’re a stirrin’ 
body in a mornin’, an’ ye’ve a light heel, an’ ye’ve cleaned th’ 
house well enough for a ma’-shift. ” 

“Makeshift, mother?” said Adam. “Why, I think the 3 s 
house looks beautiful. I don’t know how it could look 
better.” 


128 


ADAM BEDE 


“Thee dostna know?—nay; how’s thee t’know? Th’ men 
ne’er know whether the floor’s cleaned or cat-licked. But 
thee’lt when thee gets thy parridge burnt, as it’s like enough 
to be when I’n gi’en o’er makin’ it. Thee’lt think thy mother 
5 war good for summat then. ” 

“Dinah,” said Seth, “do come and sit down now and have 
your breakfast. We’re all served now.” 

“Ay, come an’ sit ye down—do,” said Lisbeth, “an’ ate 
a morsel; ye’d need, arter bein’ upo’ your legs this hour an’ 
io half a’ready. Come, then,” she added, in a tone of complain¬ 
ing affection, as Dinah sat down by her side, “I’ll be loath for 
ye t’ go, but ye canna stay much longer, I doubt. I could put 
up wi’ ye i’ th’ house better nor wi’ most folks. ” 

“I’ll stay till to-night if you’re willing,” said Dinah. “I’d 
15'stay longer, only I’m going back to Snowfield on Saturday, 
and I must be with my aunt to-morrow.” 

“Eh, I’d ne’er go back to that country. My old man come 
from that Stonyshire side, but he left it when he war a young 
un, an’ i’ the right on’t too; for he said as there war no wood 
20 there, an’ it ’ud ha’ been a bad country for a carpenter.” 

“Ah,” said Adam, “I remember father telling me when I 
was a little lad, that he made up his mind if ever he moved it 
should be south’ard. But I’m not so sure about it. °Bartle 
Massey says—and he knows the South—as the northern men 
25 are a finer breed than the southern, harder-headed and 
stronger-bodied, and a deal taller. And then he says, in 
some o’ those counties it’s as flat as the back o’ your hand, and 
you can see nothing of a distance, without climbing up the 
highest trees. I couldn’t abide that: I like to go to work by a 
30 road that’ll take me up a bit of a hill, and see the fields for 
miles round me, and a bridge, or a town, or a bit of a steeple 
here and there. It makes you feel the world’s a big place, 
and there’s other men working in it with their heads and 
hands besides yourself.” 

35 “I like th’ hills best,” said Seth, “when the clouds are over 
your head, and you see the sun shining ever s’ far off, over the 
Loamford way, as I’ve often done o’ late, on the stormy days: 


IN THE COTTAGE 


129 


it seems to me as if that was heaven where there’s always 
joy and sunshine, though this life’s dark and cloudy.” 

“Oh, I love the Stonyshire side,” said Dinah; “I shouldn’t 
like to set my face towards the countries where they’re rich 
in corn and cattle, and the ground so level and easy to tread; 5 
and to turn my back on the hills where the poor people have 
to live such a hard life, and the men spend their days in the 
mines away from the sunlight. It’s very blessed on a bleak 
cold day, when the sky is hanging dark over the hill, to feel 
the love of God in one’s soul, and carry it to the lonely, bare, 10 
stone houses, where there’s nothing else to give comfort.” 

“Eh!” said Lisbeth, “that’s very well for ye to talk, as 
looks welly like the snowdrop-flowers as ha’ lived for days an’ 
days when I’n gethered ’em, wi’ nothin’ but a drop o’ water 
an’ a peep o’ daylight; but th’ hungry foulks had better leave 15 
th’ hungry country. It makes less mouths for the scant cake. 
But,” she went on, looking at Adam, “donna thee talk o’ 
goin’ south’ard or north’ard, an’ leavin’ thy feyther and 
mother i’ the churchyard, an’ goin’ to a country as they know 
nothin’ on. I’ll ne’er rest i’ my grave if I donna see thee 1 20 
the churchyard of a Sunday.” 

“Donna fear, mother,” said Adam. “If I hadna made up 
my mind not to go, I should ha’ been gone before now.” 

He had finished his breakfast now, and rose as he was 
speaking. 25 

“What art goin’ to do?” asked Lisbeth. “Set about thy 
feyther’s coffin?” 

“No, mother,” said Adam; “we’re going to take the wood 
to the village, and have it made there. ” 

“Nay, my lad, nay,” Lisbeth burst out in an eager, wailing30 
tone; “thee wotna let nobody make thy feyther’s coffin but 
thysen? Who’d make it so well? An’ him as know’d what 
good work war, an’s got a son as is the head o’ the village, 
an’ all.Treddles’on too, for cleverness.” 

“Very well, mother, if that’s thy wish. I’ll make the coffin 35 
at home; but I thought thee wouldstna like to hear the work 
going'on.” 


130 


ADAM BEDE 


“An’ why shouldna I like ’t? It’s the right thing to be 
done. An’ what’s liking got to do wi’t? It’s choice o’ mis- 
likings is all I’m got i’ this world. One morsel’s as good as 
another when your mouth’s out o’ taste. Thee mun set 
5 about it now this mornin’ fust thing. I wonna ha’ nobody to 
touch the coffin but thee. ” 

Adam’s eyes met Seth’s, which looked from Dinah to him 
rather wistfully. 

“No, mother,” he said, “I’ll not consent but Seth shall 
io have a hand in it too, if it’s to be done at home. I’ll go to the 
village this forenoon, because Mr. Burge ’ull want to see me, 
and Seth shall stay at home and begin the coffin. I can come 
back at noon, and then he can go.” 

“Nay, nay,” persisted Lisbeth, beginning to cry, “I’n set 
15 my heart on’t as thee shalt ma’ thy feyther’s coffin. Thee’t 
so stiff an’ masterful, thee’t ne’er do as thy mother wants 
thee. Thee wast often angered wi’ thy feyther when he war 
alive; thee must be the better to him now he’s gone. He’d 
ha’ thought nothin on’t for Seth to ma’s coffin.” 

20 “Say no more, Adam, say no more,” said Seth, gently, 
though his voice told that he spoke with some effort; “mother’s 
in the right. I’ll go to work, and do thee stay at home. ” 

He passed into the workshop immediately, followed by 
Adam; while Lisbeth, automatically obeying her old habits, 
25 began to put away the breakfast things, as if she did not mean 
Dinah to take her place any longer. Dinah said nothing, but 
presently used the opportunity of quietly joining the brothers 
in the workshop. 

They had already got on their aprons and paper-caps, and 
30 Adam was standing with his left hand on Seth’s shoulder, 
while he pointed with the hammer in his right to some boards 
which they were looking at. Their backs were turned to¬ 
wards the door by which Dinah entered, and she came in so 
gently that they were not aware of her presence till they heard 
35 her voice saying, “Seth Bede!” Seth started, and they both 
turned round. Dinah looked as if she did not see Adam, and 
fixed her eyes on Seth’s face, saying with calm kindness— 


IN THE COTTAGE 


131 

“I won’t say farewell. I shall see you again when you come 
from work. So as I’m at the farm before dark, it will be quite 
soon enough.” 

“Thank you, Dinah; I should like to walk home with you 
once more. It’ll perhaps be the last time.” 5 

There was a little tremor in Seth’s voice. Dinah put out her 
hand and said, “You’ll have sweet peace in your mind to-day, 
Seth, for your tenderness and long-suffering towards your 
aged mother.” 

She turned round and left the workshop as quickly and 10 
quietly as she had entered it. Adam had been observing her 
closely all the while, but she had not looked at him. As soon 
as she was gone, he said— 

“I don’t wonder at thee for loving her, Seth. She’s got a 
face like a lily.” 15 

Seth’s soul rushed to his eyes and lips: he had never yet 
confessed his secret to Adam, but now he felt a delicious sense 
of disburthenment, as he answered— 

“Ay, Addy, I do love her—too much, I doubt. But she 
doesna love me, lad, only as one child o’ God loves another. 20 
She’ll never love any man as a husband—that’s my belief.” 

“Nay, lad, there’s no telling; thee mustna lose heart. She’s 
made out o’ stuff with a finer grain than most o’ the women; 

I can see that clear enough. But if she’s better than they are 
in other things, I canna think she’ll fall short of ’em in loving.” 25 

No more was said. Seth set out to the village, and Adam 
began his work on the coffin. 

“God help the lad, and me too,” he thought, as he lifted 
the board. “We’re like enough to find life a tough job—hard 
work inside and out. It’s a strange thing to think of a man as 30 
can lift a chair with his teeth, and walk fifty mile on end, 
trembling and turning hot and cold at only a look from one 
woman out of all the rest i’ the world. It’s a mystery we can 
give no account of; but no more we can of the sprouting o’ the 
seed, for that matter. ” 35 


CHAPTER XII 

IN THE WOOD 


That same Thursday morning, as Arthur Donmthorne was 
moving about in his dressing-room seeing his well-looking 
British person reflected in the old-fashioned mirrors, and 
stared at, from a dingy olive-green piece of tapestry, by 
e °Pharaoh’s daughter and her maidens, who ought to have 
been minding the infant Moses, he was holding a discussion 
with himself, which, by the time his valet was tying the black 
silk sling over his shoulder, had issued m a distinct practical 

resolution. , „ , „ . „ , 

IO “I mean to go to Eagledale and fish for a week or so, he 
said aloud. “I shall take you with me, Pym, and set oil this 
morning; so be ready by half-past eleven. . . . , . 

The low whistle, which had assisted him in arriving at this 
resolution, here broke out into his loudest ringing tenor, and 
ie the corridor, as he hurried along it, echoed to his favourite 
song from the °“ Beggar’s Opera,” “When the heart of a man 
is oppressed with care.” Not an heroic strain; nevertheless 
Arthur felt himself very heroic as he strode towards the stables 
to give his orders about the horses. His own approbation was 
20 necessary to him, and it was not an approbation to be en¬ 
joyed quite gratuitously; it must be won by a fair amount ol 
merit. He had never yet forfeited that approbation, and he 
had considerable reliance on his own virtues. No young man 
could confess his faults more candidly; candour was one ot 
25 his favourite virtues; and how can a man’s candour be seen in 
all its lustre unless he has a few failings to talk of? But he had 
an agreeable confidence that his faults were all of a generous 
kind—impetuous, warm-blooded, leonine; never crawling, 
crafty, reptilian. It was not possible for Arthur Donmthorne 

132 


IN THE WOOD 


133 


to do anything mean, dastardly, or cruel. “No! I’m a devil 
of a fellow for getting myself into a °hobble, but I always take 
care the load shall fall on my own shoulders.” Unhappily 
there is no inherent poetical justice in hobbles, and they will 
sometimes obstinately refuse to inflict their worst conse-5 
quences on the prime offender, in spite of his loudly-expressed 
wish. It was entirely owing to this deficiency in the scheme of 
things that Arthur had ever brought any one into trouble 
besides himself. He was nothing, if not good-natured; and all 
his pictures of the future, when he should come into the estate, 10 
were made up of a prosperous, contented tenantry, adoring 
their landlord, who would be the model of an English gentle¬ 
man—mansion in first-rate order, all elegance and high taste— 
jolly housekeeping, finest stud in Loamshire—purse open to 
all public objects—in short, everything as different as pos- is 
sible from what was now associated with the name of Donni- 
thorne. And one of the first good actions he would perform in 
that future should be to increase Irwine’s income for the 
vicarage of Hayslope, so that he might keep a carriage for his 
mother and sisters. His hearty affection for the Rector dated 20 
from the age of frocks and trousers. It was an affection °partly 
filial, partly fraternal;—fraternal enough to make him like 
Irwine’s company better than that of most younger men, and 
filial enough to make him shrink strongly from incurring 
Irwine’s disapprobation. 25 

You perceive that Arthur Donnithorne was “a good fel¬ 
low”—all his college friends thought him such: he couldn’t 
bear to see any one uncomfortable; he would have been sorry 
even in his angriest moods for any harm to happen to his 
grandfather; and his aunt Lydia herself had the benefit of that 30 
soft-heartedness which he bore towards the whole sex. 
Whether he would have self-mastery enough to be always as 
harmless and purely beneficent as his good-nature led him to 
desire, was a question that no one had yet decided against 
him: he was but twenty-one, you remember; and we don’t in- 35 
quire too closely into character in the case of a handsome gen¬ 
erous young fellow, who will have property enough to support 


134 


ADAM BEDE 


numerous peccadilloes—who, if he should unfortunately 
break a man’s legs in his rash driving, will be able to pension 
him handsomely; or if he should happen to spoil a woman’s 
existence for her, will make it up to her with expensive bon- 
5 bons , packed up and directed by his own hand. °It would be 
ridiculous to be prying and analytic in such cases, as if one 
were inquiring into the character of a confidential clerk. We 
use round, general, gentlemanly epithets about a young man 
of birth and fortune; and ladies, with that fine intuition which 
io is the distinguishing attribute of their sex, see at once that he 
is “ nice. ” The chances are that he will go through life without 
scandalising any one; a sea-worthy vessel that no one would 
refuse to insure. Ships, certainly, are liable to casualties, 
which sometimes make terribly evident some flaw in their 
is construction, that would never have been discoverable in 
smooth water; and many a “good fellow,” through a disas¬ 
trous combination of circumstances, has undergone a like 
betrayal. 

But we have no fair ground for entertaining unfavourable 
20 auguries concerning Arthur Donnithorne, who this morning 
proves himself capable of a prudent resolution founded on 
conscience. One thing is clear: Nature has taken care that he 
shall never go far astray with perfect comfort and satisfaction 
to himself; he will never get beyond that border-land of sin, 
25 where he will be perpetually harassed by assaults from the 
other side of the boundary. He will never be a courtier of 
Vice, and wear her orders in his button-hole. 

It was about ten o’clock, and the sun was shining brilliantly; 
everything was looking lovelier for the yesterday’s rain. It is 
30 a pleasant thing on such a morning to walk along the well- 
rolled gravel on one’s way to the stables, meditating an excur¬ 
sion. But the scent of the stables, which, in a natural state of 
things, ought to be among the soothing influences of a man’s 
life, always brought with it some irritation to Arthur. There 
35 was no having his own way in the stables; everything was 
managed in the stingiest fashion. His grandfather persisted 
in retaining as head groom an old doit whom no sort of lever 


IN THE WOOD 


135 

could move out of his old habits, and who was allowed to hire 
a succession of raw Loamshire lads as his subordinates, one of 
whom had lately tested a new pair of shears by clipping an 
oblong patch on Arthur’s bay mare. This state of things is 
naturally embittering; one can put up with annoyances in the 5 
house, but to have the stable made a scene of vexation and 
disgust, is a point beyond what human flesh and blood can be 
expected to endure long together without danger of °mis- 
anthropy. 

Old John’s wooden, deep-wrinkled face was the first object 10 
that met Arthur’s eyes as he entered the stable-yard, and it 
quite poisoned for him the bark of the two blood-hounds that 
kept watch there. He could never speak quite patiently to the 
old blockhead. 

“You must have Meg saddled for me and brought to the 15 
door at half-past eleven, and I shall want Rattler saddled for 
Pym at the same time. Do you hear?” 

“Yes, I hear, I hear, Cap’n,” said old John, very delib¬ 
erately, following the young master into the stable. John con¬ 
sidered a young master as the natural enemy of an old servant, 20 
and young people in general as a poor contrivance for carrying 
on the world. 

Arthur went in for the sake of patting Meg, declining as far 
as possible to see anything in the stables, lest he should lose 
his temper before breakfast. The pretty creature was in one 25 
of the inner stables, and turned her mild head as her master 
came beside her. Little Trot, a tiny spaniel, her inseparable 
companion in the stable, was comfortably curled up on her back. 

“Well, Meg, my pretty girl,” said Arthur, patting her 
neck, “we’ll have a glorious canter this morning.” 30 

“Nay, your honour, I donna see as that can be,” said John. 

“Not be? Why not?” 

“Why, she’s got lamed.” 

“Lamed, confound you! what do you mean?” 

“Why, th’ lad took her too close to Dalton’s hosses, an’35 
one on ’em flung at her, an’ she’s got her shank bruised o’ 
the near fore-leg.” 


ADAM BEDE 


136 

°The judicious historian abstains from narrating precisely 
what ensued. You understand that there was a greal deal of 
strong language, mingled with soothing “who-ho’s” while the 
leg was examined; that John stood by with quite as much 
s emotion as if he had been a cunningly-carved crab-tree walk¬ 
ing-stick, and that Arthur Donnithorne presently repassed the 
iron gates of the pleasure-ground without singing as he went. 

He considered himself thoroughly disappointed and 
annoyed. There was not another mount in the stable for 
10 himself and his servant besides Meg and Rattler. It was 
vexatious; just when he wanted to get out of the way for a 
week or two. It seemed culpable in Providence to allow such 
a combination of circumstances. To be shut up at the Chase 
with a broken arm, when every other fellow in his regiment 
x 5 was enjoying himself at °Windsor—shut up with his grand¬ 
father, who had the same sort of affection for him as for his 
parchment deeds! And to be disgusted at every turn with the 
management of the house and the estate! In such circum¬ 
stances a man necessarily gets in an ill humour, and works off 
20 the irritation by some excess or other. “ Salkeld would have 
drunk a bottle of port every day,” he muttered to himself; 
“but I m not well seasoned enough for that. Well, since I 
can’t go to Eagledale,T’ll have a gallop on Rattler to Nor- 
burne this morning, and lunch with Gawaine. ” 

25 Behind this explicit resolution there lay an implicit one. 
If he lunched with Gawaine and lingered chatting, he should 
not reach the Chase again till nearly five, when Hetty would 
be safe out of his sight in the housekeeper’s room; and when 
she set out to go home, it would be his lazy time after dinner, 
so so he should keep out of her way altogether. There really 
would have been no harm in being kind to the little thing, and 
it was worth dancing with a dozen ball-room belles only to 
look at Hetty for half an hour. But perhaps he had better 
not take any more notice of her; it might put notions into her 
35 head, as Irwine had hinted; though Arthur, for his part, 
thought girls were not by any means so soft and easily bruised; 
indeed, he had generally found them twice as cool and cunning 


IN THE WOOD 


137 


as he was himself. As for any real harm in Hetty’s case, it was 
out of the question: Arthur Donnithorne accepted his own 
bond for himself with perfect confidence. 

So the twelve o’clock sun. saw him galloping towards Nor- 
burne; and by good fortune Halsell Common lay in his road, 5 
and gave him some fine leaps for Rattler. Nothing like 
“taking” a few bushes and ditches for exorcising a demon; 
and it is really astonishing that the °Centaurs, with their 
immense advantages in this way, have left so bad a reputation 
in history. 10 

After this, you will perhaps be surprised to hear, that al¬ 
though Gawaine was at home, the hand of the dial in the 
courtyard had scarcely cleared the last stroke of three, when 
Arthur returned through the entrance-gates, got down from 
the panting Rattler, and went into the house to take a hasty i 5 
luncheon. But I believe there have been men since his day 
who have ridden a long way to avoid a °rencontre, and then 
galloped hastily back lest they should miss it. It is the fa¬ 
vourite stratagem of our passions tosham a retreat, and to turn 
sharp round upon us at the moment we have made up our 20 
minds that the day is our own. 

“The Cap’n’s been ridin’ the devil’s own pace,” said Dal¬ 
ton the coachman, whose person stood out in high relief as he 
smoked his pipe against the stable wall, when John brought up 
Rattler. _ , 25 

“An’ I wish he’d get the devil to do’s grooming for’n,” 
growled John. 

“Ay; he’d hev a deal haimabler groom nor what he has 
now,” observed Dalton; and the joke appeared to him so 
good, that, being left alone upon the scene, he continued at 30 
intervals to take his pipe from his mouth in order to wink at 
an imaginary audience, and shake luxuriously with a silent, 
ventral laughter; mentally rehearsing the dialogue from the 
beginning, that he might recite it with effect in the servants’ 
hall. 35 

When Arthur went up to his dressing-room again after 
luncheon, it was inevitable that the debate he had had with 


ADAM BEDE 


138 

himself there earlier in the day should flash across his mind; 
but it was impossible for him now to dwell on the remem¬ 
brance—impossible to recall the feelings and reflections which 
had been decisive with him then, any more than to recall the 
s peculiar scent of the air that had freshened him when he first 
opened his window. The desire to see Hetty had rushed back 
like an ill-stemmed current; he was amazed himself at the 
force with which this trivial fancy seemed to grasp him: he was 
even rather tremulous as he brushed his hair—pooh! it was 
10 riding in that break-neck way. It was because he had made 
a serious affair of an idle matter, by thinking of it as if it were 
of any consequence. He would amuse himself by seeing Hetty 
to-day, and get rid of the whole thing from his mind. It was 
all Irwine’s fault. “If Irwine had said nothing, I shouldn’t 
15 have thought half so much of Hetty as of Meg’s lameness. ” 
However, it was just the sort of day for lolling in the Her¬ 
mitage, and he would go and finish °Dr. Moore’s Zeluco there 
before dinner. The Hermitage stood in Fir-tree Grove—the 
way Hetty was sure to come in walking from the Hall Farm. 
20 So nothing could be simpler and more natural: meeting Hetty 
was a mere circumstance of his walk, not its object. 

Arthur’s shadow flitted rather faster among the sturdy 
oaks of the Chase than might have been expected from the 
shadow of a tired man on a warm afternoon, and it was still 
25 scarcely four o’clock when he stood before the tall narrow 
gate leading into the delicious labyrinthine wood which skirted 
one side of the Chase, and which was called Fir-tree Grove, 
not because the firs were many, but because they were few. 
It was a wood of beeches and limes, with here and there a light 
30 silver-stemmed birch—just the sort of wood most haunted by 
the nymphs: you see their white sunlit limbs gleaming athwart 
the boughs, or peeping from behind the smooth-sweeping 
outline of a tall lime; you hear their soft liquid laughter—but 
if you look with a too curious sacrilegious eye, they vanish 
35 behind the silvery beeches, they make you believe that their 
voice was only a running brooklet, perhaps they metamor¬ 
phose themselves into a tawny squirrel that scampers away 


IN THE WOOD 


139 


and mocks you from the topmost bough. It was not a grove 
with measured grass or rolled gravel for you to tread upon, 
but with narrow, hollow-shaped, earthy paths, edged with faint 
dashes of delicate moss—paths which look as if they were made 
by the free-will of the trees and underwood, moving reverently 5 
aside to look at the tall queen of the white-footed nymphs. 

It was along the broadest of these paths that Arthur Donni- 
thorne passed, under an avenue of limes and beeches. It was 
a still afternoon—the golden light was lingering languidly 
among the upper boughs, only glancing down here and there 10 
on the purple pathway and its edge of faintly-sprinkled moss: 
an afternoon in which destiny disguises her cold awful face 
behind a hazy radiant veil, encloses us in warm downy wings, 
and poisons us with violet-scented breath. Arthur strolled 
along carelessly, with a book under his arm, but not looking on is 
the ground as meditative men are apt to do; his eyes would fix 
themselves on the distant bend in the road round which a little 
figure must surely appear before long. Ah! there she comes: 
first a bright patch of colour; like a tropic bird among the 
boughs, then a tripping figure, with a round hat on, and a 20 
small basket under her arm; then a deep-blushing, almost 
frightened, but bright-smiling girl, making her curtsy with a 
fluttered yet happy glance, as Arthur came up to her. If 
Arthur had had time to think at all, he would have thought 
it strange that he should feel fluttered too, be conscious of 25 
blushing too—in fact, look and feel as foolish as if he had been 
taken by surprise instead of meeting just what he expected. 
Poor things! It was a pity they were not in that golden age 
of childhood when they would have stood face to face, eyeing 
each other with timid liking, then given each other a little 30 
butterfly kiss, and toddled off to play together. Arthur would 
have gone home to his silk-curtained cot, and Hetty to her 
home-spun pillow, and both would have slept without dreams, 
and to-morrow would have been a life hardly conscious of a 
yesterday. # 35 

Arthur turned round and walked by Hetty’s side without 
giving a reason. They were alone together for the first time. 


140 


ADAM BEDE 


What an overpowering presence that first privacy is! He 
actually dared not look at this little buttermaker for the first 
minute or two. As for Hetty, her feet rested on a cloud, and she 
was borne along by warm zephyrs; she had forgotten her rose- 
5 coloured ribbons; she w^as no more conscious of her limbs than 
if her childish soul had passed into a water-lily, resting on a 
liquid bed, and warmed by the midsummer sunbeams. It may 
seem a contradiction, but Arthur gathered a certain carelessness 
and confidence from his timidity: it was an entirely different 
io state of mind from what he had expected in such a meeting with 
Hetty; and full as he was of vague feeling, there was room, in 
those moments of silence, for the thought that his previous 
debates and scruples were needless. 

“You are quite right to choose this way of coming to the 
is Chase,” he said at last, looking down at Hetty, “ it is so much 
prettier as well as shorter than coming by either of the lodges. 

“Yes, sir,” Hetty answered, with a tremulous, almost 
whispering voice. She didn’t know one bit how to speak to a 
gentleman like Mr. Arthur, and her very vanity made her 
20 more coy of speech. „ 

“Do you come every week to see Mrs. Pomfret? 

“Yes, sir, every Thursday, only when she’s got to go out 
with Miss Donnithorne.” 

“And she’s teaching you something, is she?” 

2s “Yes, sir, the lace-mending as she learnt abroad, and the 
stocking-mending—it looks just like the stocking, you can t 
tell it’s been mended; and she teaches me cutting-out too.” 

“What! are you going to be a lady’s-maid?” 

“I should like to be one very much indeed.” Hetty spoke 
30 more audibly now, but still rather tremulously; she thought, 
perhaps she seemed as stupid to Captain Donnithorne as Luke 
Britton did to her. . . 

“I suppose Mrs. Pomfret always expects you at this timer 

“She expects me at four o’clock. I’m rather late to-day, 
35 because my aunt couldn’t spare me; but the regular time is 
four, because that gives us time before Miss Donnithorne s 
bell rings.” 


IN THE WOOD 


141 

4 

“Ah, then, I must not keep you now, else I should like to 
show you the Hermitage. Did you ever see it?” 

“No, sir,” 

“This is the walk where we turn up to it. But we must not 
go now. I’ll show it you some other time, if you’d like to see 5 
it.” 

“Yes, please, sir.” 

“ Do you always come back this way in the evening, or are 
you afraid to come so lonely a road?” 

“Oh no, sir, it’s never late; I always set out by eight 10 
o’clock, and it’s so light now in the evening. My aunt would 
be angry with me if I didn’t get home before nine.” 

“Perhaps Craig, the gardener, comes to take care of you?” 

A deep blush overspread Hetty’s face and neck. “I’m sure 
he doesn’t; I’m sure he never did; I wouldn’t let him; I don’t 15 
like him,” she said hastily, and the tears of vexation had come 
so fast, that before she had done speaking a bright drop rolled 
down her hot cheek. Then she felt ashamed to death that she 
was crying, and for one long instant her happiness was all 
gone. But in the next she felt an arm steal round her, and a 20 
gentle voice said— 

“Why, Hetty, what makes you cry? I didn’t mean to vex 
you. I wouldn’t vex you for the world, you little blossom. 
Come, don’t cry; look at me, else I shall think you won’t for¬ 
give me. ” 25 

Arthur had laid his hand on the soft arm that was nearest 
to him, and was stooping towards Hetty with a look of coaxing 
entreaty. Hetty lifted her long dewy lashes, and met the eyes 
that were bent towards her with a sweet, timid, beseeching 
look. What a space of time those three moments were, while 30 
their eyes met and his arms touched her! Love is such a sim¬ 
ple thing when we have only one-and-twenty summers and a 
sweet girl of seventeen trembles under our glance, as if she 
were a bud first opening her heart with wondering rapture to 
the morning. Such young unfurrowed souls roll to meet each 35 
other like two velvet peaches that touch softly and are at rest; 
they mingle as easily as two brooklets that ask for nothing but 


ADAM BEDE 


142 

to entwine themselves and ripple with ever-interlacing curves 
in the leafiest hiding-places. While Arthur gazed into Hetty’s 
dark beseeching eyes, it made no difference to him what sort 
of English she spoke: and even if hoops and powder had been 
s in fashion, he would very likely not have been sensible just 
then that Hetty wanted those signs of high breeding. 

But they started asunder with beating hearts: something 
had fallen on the ground with a rattling noise; it was Hetty’s 
basket; all her little work-woman’s matters were scattered on 
10 the path, some of them showing a capability of rolling to great 
lengths. There was much to be done in picking up, and not a 
word was spoken; but when Arthur hung the basket over.her 
arm again, the poor child felt a strange difference in his look 
and manner. He just pressed her hand, and said, with a look 
x S and tone that were almost chilling to her— 

“I have been hindering you; I must not keep you any 
longer now. You will be expected at the house. Good-bye.” 

Without waiting for her to speak, he turned away from her 
and hurried back towards the road that led to the Hermitage, 
20 leaving Hetty to pursue her way in a strange dream, that 
seemed to have begun in bewildering delight, and was now 
passing into contrarieties and sadness. Would he meet her 
again as she came home? Why had he spoken almost as if 
he were displeased with her? and then run away so suddenly? 
25 She cried, hardly knowing why. 

Arthur too was very uneasy, but his feelings were lit up for 
him by a more distinct consciousness. He hurried to the 
Hermitage, which stood in the heart of the wood, unlocked the 
door with a hasty wrench, slammed it after him, pitched 
30 Zeluco into the most distant corner, and, thrusting his right 
hand into his pocket, first walked four or five times up and 
down the scanty length of the little room, and then seated 
himself on the ottoman in an uncomfortable stiff way, as we 
often do when we wish not to abandon ourselves to feeling. 

35 He was getting in love with Hetty—that was quite plain. 
He was ready to pitch everything else—no matter where— 
for the sake of surrendering himself to this delicious feeling 


IN THE WOOD 


143 

which had just disclosed itself. It was no use blinking the fact 
now—they would get too fond of each other, if he went on 
taking notice of her—and what would come of it? He should 
have to go away in a few weeks, and the poor little thing would 
be miserable. He must not see her alone again; he must keep 5 
out of her way. What a fool he was for coming back from 
Gawaine’s! 

He got up and threw open the windows, to let in the soft 
breath of the afternoon, and the healthy scent of the firs that 
made a belt round the Hermitage. The soft air did not help 10 
his resolutions, as he leaned out and looked into the leafy 
distance. But he considered his resolution sufficiently fixed: 
there was no need to debate with himself any longer. He had 
made up his mind not to meet Hetty again; and now he might 
give himself up to thinking how immensely agreeable it would 15, 
be if circumstances were different-—how pleasant it would 
have been to meet her this evening as she came back, and put 
his arm round her again and look into her sweet face. He 
wondered if the dear little thing were thinking of him too— 
twenty to one she was. How beautiful her eyes were with the 20 
tear on their lashes! He would like to satisfy his soul for a day 
with looking at them, and he must see her again:—he must see 
her, simply to remove any false impression from her mind 
about his manner to her just now. He would behave in a 
quiet, kind way to her—just to prevent her from going home 25 
with her head full of wrong fancies. Yes, that would be the 
best thing to do after all. 

It was a long while—more than an hour—before Arthur had 
brought his meditations to this point; but once arrived there, 
he could stay no longer at the Hermitage. The time must be 30 
filled up with movement until he should see Hetty again. And 
it was already late enough to go and dress for dinner, for his 
grandfather’s dinner-hour was six. 


CHAPTER XIII 


EVENING IN THE WOOD 

It happened that Mrs. Pomfret had had a slight quarrel with 
Mrs. Best, the housekeeper, on this Thursday morning — a 
fact which had two consequences highly convenient to Hetty. 
It caused Mrs. Pomfret to have tea sent up to her own room, 
5 and it inspired that exemplary lady’s-maid with so lively a 
recollection of former passages in Mrs. Best’s conduct, and of 
dialogues in which Mrs. Best had decidedly the inferiority as 
an interlocutor with Mrs. Pomfret, that Hetty required no 
more presence of mind than was demanded for using her 
io needle, and throwing in an occasional “yes” or “no.” She 
would have wanted to put on her hat earlier than usual; only 
she had told Captain Donnithorne that she usually set out 
about eight o’clock, and if he should go to the Gfove again 
expecting to see her, and she should be gone! Would he come? 
15 Her little butterfly-soul fluttered incessantly between memory 
and dubious expectation. At last the minute-hand of the old- 
fashioned brazen-faced timepiece was on the last quarter to 
eight, and there was every reason for its being time to get 
ready'for departure. Even Mrs. Pomfret’s preoccupied mind 
20 did not prevent her from noticing what looked like a new flush 
of beauty in the little thing as she tied on her hat before the 
looking-glass. 

“That child gets prettier and prettier every day, I do be¬ 
lieve,” was her inward comment. “The more’s the pity. 
25 She’ll get neither a place nor a husband any the sooner for it. 
Sober well-to-do men don’t like such pretty wives. When I 
was a girl, I was more admired than if I had been so very 
pretty. However, she’s reason to be grateful to me for teach¬ 
ing her something to get her bread with, better than farm- 


144 


EVENING IN THE WOOD 


US 


house work. They always told me I was good-natured—and 
that’s the truth, and to my hurt too, else there’s them in this 
house that wouldn’t be here now to lord it over me in the 
housekeeper’s room.” 

Hetty walked hastily across the short space of pleasure-5 
ground which she had to traverse, dreading to meet Mr. Craig, 
to whom she could hardly have spoken civilly. How relieved 
she was when she had got safely under the oaks and among the 
fern of the Chase! Even then she was as ready to be startled 
as the deer that leaped away at her approach. °She thought 10 
nothing of the evening light that lay gently in the grassy 
alleys between the fern, and made the beauty of their living 
green more visible than it had been in the overpowering flood 
of noon: she thought of nothing that was present. She only 
saw something that was possible: Mr. Arthur Donnithorne 15 
coming to meet her again along the Fir-tree Grove. That was 
the foreground of Hetty’s picture; behind it lay a bright hazy 
something—days that were not to be as the other days of her 
life had been. It was as if she had been wooed by a river-god, 
who might any time take her to his wondrous halls below a 20 
watery heaven. There was no knowing what would come, 
since this strange entrancing delight had come. If a chest full 
of lace and satin and jewels had been sent her from some un¬ 
known source, how could she but have thought that her whole 
lot was going to change, and that to-morrow some still more 25 
bewildering joy would befall her? Hetty had never read a 
novel; if she had ever seen one, I think the words would have 
been too hard for her; how then could she find a shape for her 
expectations? They were as formless as the sweet languid 
odours of the garden at the Chase, which had floated past her 30 
as she walked by the gate. 

She is at another gate now—that leading into Fir-tree 
Grove. She enters the wood, where it is already twilight, and 
at every step she takes, the fear at her heart becomes colder. 

If he should not come! Oh how dreary it was—the thought of 35 
going out at the other end of the wood, into the unsheltered 
road, without having seen him. She reaches the first turning 


ADAM BEDE 


146 

towards the Hermitage, walking slowly—he is not there. She 
hates the °leveret that runs across the path: she hates every¬ 
thing that is not what she longs for. She walks on, happy 
whenever she is coming to a bend in the road, for perhaps he is 
s behind it. No. She is beginning to cry: her heart has swelled 
so, the tears stand in her eyes; she gives one great sob, while 
the corners of her mouth quiver, and the tears roll down 

She doesn’t know that there is another turning to the Her¬ 
mitage, that she is close against it, and that Arthur Donni- 
10 thorne is only a few yards from her, full of one thought, and 
a thought of which she only is the object. He is going to 
see Hetty again: that is the longing which has been growing 
through the last three hours to a feverish thirst. Not, of 
course, to speak in the caressing way into which he had un¬ 
is guardedly fallen before dinner, but to set things right with her 
by a kindness which would have the air of friendly civility, and 
prevent her from running away with wrong notions about 
their mutual relation. 

If Hetty had known he was there, she would not have cried; 
20 and it would have been better, for then Arthur would perhaps 
have behaved as wisely as he had intended. As it was, she 
started when he appeared at the end of the side-alley, and 
looked up at him with two great drops rolling down her cheeks. 
What else could he do but speak to her in a soft, soothing 
25 tone, as if she were a bright-eyed spaniel with a thorn in her 
foot ? 

“Has something frightened you, Hetty? Have you seen 
anything in the wood ? Don’t be frightened—I’ll take care of 
you now. ” 1 

30 Hetty was blushing so, she didn’t know whether she was 
happy or miserable. To be crying again—what did gentlemen 
think of girls who cried in that way? She felt unable even to 
say “no,” but could only look away from him, and wipe the 
tears from her cheek. Not before a great drop had fallen on 
35 her rose-coloured strings: she knew that quite well. 

“Come, be cheerful again. Smile at me, and tell me what’s 
the matter. Come, tell me.” 


EVENING IN THE WOOD 


147 


Hetty turned her head towards him, whispered, “I thought 
you wouldn’t come,” and slowly got courage to lift her eyes to 
him. That look was too much: he must have had eyes of 
°Egyptian granite not to look too lovingly in return. 

“You little frightened bird! little tearful rose! silly pet! $ 
You won’t cry again, now I’m with you, will you?” 

Ah, he doesn’t know in the least what he is saying. This is 
not what he meant to say. His arm is stealing round the waist 
again, it is tightening its clasp; he is bending his face nearer 
and nearer to the round cheek, his lips are meeting those pout- 10 
ing child-lips, and for a long moment time has vanished. He 
may be a °shepherd in Arcadia for aught he knows, he may be 
the first youth kissing the first maiden, he may be °Eros him¬ 
self, sipping the lips of °Psyche—it is all one. 

There was no speaking for minutes after. They walked 15 
along with beating hearts till they came within sight of the 
gate at the end of the wood. Then they looked at each other, 
not quite as they had looked before, for in their eyes there was 
the memory of a kiss. 

But already something bitter had begun to mingle itself 20 
with the fountain of sweets: already Arthur was uncomfort¬ 
able. He took his arm from Hetty’s waist, and said— 

“Here we are, almost at the end of the Grove. I wonder 
how late it is,” he added, pulling out his watch. “Twenty 
minutes past eight—but my watch is too fast. However, I’d 25 
better not go any further now. Trot along quickly with your 
little feet, and get home safely. Good-bye. ” 

He took her hand, and looked at her half sadly, half with 
a constrained smile. Hetty’s eyes seemed to beseech him 
not to go away yet; but he patted her cheek and said “Good- 30 
bye” again. She was obliged to turn away from him, and 
go on. 

As for Arthur, he rushed back through the wood, as if he 
wanted to put a wide space between himself and Hetty. He 
would not go to the Hermitage again; he remembered how he 35 
had debated with himself there before dinner, and it had all 
come to nothing—worse than nothing. He walked right on 


ADAM BEDE 


148 

into the Chase, glad to get out of the Grove, which surely was 
haunted by his evil genius. Those beeches and smooth limes— 
there was something enervating in the very sight of them; but 
the strong knotted old oaks had no bending languor in them— 
5 the sight of them would give a man some energy. Arthur lost 
himself among the narrow openings in the fern, winding about 
without seeking any issue, till the twilight deepened almost 
to night under the great boughs, and the hare looked black as 
it darted across his path. 

10 He was feeling much more strongly than he had done in the 
morning: it was as if his horse had wheeled round from a leap, 
and dared to dispute his mastery. He was dissatisfied with 
himself, irritated, mortified. He no sooner fixed his mind on 
the probable consequences of giving way to the emotions 
15 which had stolen over him to-day—of continuing to notice 
Hetty, of allowing himself any opportunity for such slight 
caresses as he had been betrayed into already—than he refused 
to believe such a future possible for himself. To flirt with 
Hetty was a very different affair from flirting with a pretty 
20 girl of his own station: that was understood to be an amuse¬ 
ment on both sides; or, if it became serious, there was no 
obstacle to marriage. But this little thing would be spoken ill 
of directly, if she happened to be seen walking with him; and 
then those excellent people, the Poysers, to whom a good name 
25 was as precious as if they had the best blood in the land in their 
veins—he should hate himself if he made a scandal of that 
sort, on the estate that was to be his own some day, and 
among tenants by whom he liked, above all, to be respected. 
He could no more believe that he should so fall in his own 
30 esteem than that he should break both his legs and go on 
crutches all the rest of his life. He couldn’t imagine himself 
in that position; it was too odious, too unlike him. 

And even if no one knew anything about it, they might get 
too fond of each other, and then there could be nothing but 
35 the misery of parting, after all. °No gentlemen, out of a bal¬ 
lad, could marry a farmer’s niece. There must be an end to the 
whole thing at once. It was too foolish. 


EVENING IN THE WOOD 


149 


And yet he had been so determined this morning, before 
he went to Gawaine’s; and while he was there something had 
taken hold of him and made him gallop back. It seemed, he 
couldn’t quite depend on his own resolution, as he had 
thought he could: he almost wished his arm would get painful 5 
again, and then he should think of nothing but the comfort it 
would be to get rid of the pain. There was no knowing what 
impulse might seize him tomorrow, in this confounded place, 
where there was nothing to occupy him imperiously through 
the livelong day. What could he do to secure himself from 10 
any more of this folly? 

There was but one resource. He would go and tell Irwine 
—tell him everything. The mere act of telling it would make 
it seem trivial; the temptation would vanish, as the charm 
of fond words vanishes when one repeats them to the indif- 15 
ferent. In every way it would help him, to tell Irwine. He 
would ride to Broxton Rectory the first thing after breakfast 
to-morrow. 

Arthur had no sooner come to this determination than he 
began to think which of the paths would lead him home, and 20 
made as short a walk thither as he could. He felt sure he 
should sleep now: he had had enough to tire him, and there 
was no more need for him to think. 


CHAPTER XIV 

THE RETURN HOME 

While that parting in the wood was happening, there was a 
parting in the cottage too, and Lisbeth had stood with Adam 
at the door, straining her aged eyes to get the last glimpse of 
Seth and Dinah, as they mounted the opposite slope. 

5 “Eh, I’m loath to see the last on her,’’ she said to Adam, 
as they turned into the house again. “I’d ha’ been willin 
t’ ha her about me till I died and went to lie by my old man. 
She’d make it easier dyin’—she spakes so gentle an’ moves 
about so still. I could be fast sure that pictur was drawed for 
IO her i’ thy new Bible—°th’ angel a-sittin’ on the big stone by 
the grave. Eh, I wouldna mind ha’in’ a daughter like that; 
but nobody ne’er marries them as is good for aught.” 

“Well, mother, I hope thee wilt have her for a daughter; 
for Seth’s got a liking for her, and I hope she’ll get a liking for 
is Seth in time.” 

“Where’s th’ use o’ talkin’ a-that’n? She caresna for Seth. 
She’s goin’ away twenty mile aff. How’s she to get a likin’ for 
him, I’d like to know? No more nor the cake ’ull come wi’out 
the leaven. Thy figurin’ books might ha’ tould thee better 
20 nor that, I should think, else thee mightst as well read the 
commin print, as Seth allays does.” 

“Nay, mother,” said Adam, laughing, “the figures tell us a 
fine deal, and we couldn’t go far without ’em, but they don’t 
tell us about folk’s feelings. It’s a nicer job to calculate 
as them. But Seth’s as good-hearted a lad as ever handled a tool 
and plenty o’ sense, and good-looking too; and he’s got the 
same way o’ thinking as Dinah. He deserves to win her, 
though there’s no denying she’s a rare bit o’workmanship. 
You don’t see such women turned off the wheel every day.” 

IS© 


THE RETURN HOME 


I5i 

“Eh, thee’t allays stick up for thy brother. Thee’st been 
just the same, e’er sin’ ye war little uns together. Thee wart 
allays for halving iverything wi’ him. But what’s Seth got to 
do with marryin’, as is only three-an’-twenty? He’d more 
need to learn an’ lay by sixpence. An’ as for his desarving her 5 
—she’s two ’ear older nor Seth: she’s pretty near as old as 
thee. But that’s the way; folks mun allays choose by con¬ 
tra iries, as if they must be sorted like the pork—a bit o’ good 
meat wi’ a bit o’ offal. ” 

°To the feminine mind in some of its moods, all things that 10 
might be, receive a temporary charm from comparison with 
what is; and since Adam did not want to marry Dinah him¬ 
self, Lisbeth felt rather peevish on that score—as peevish as 
she would have been if he had wanted to marry her, and so shut 
himself out from Mary Burge and the partnership as effect-15 
ually as by marrying Hetty. 

It was more than half-past eight when Adam and his 
mother were talking in this way, so that when, about' ten 
minutes later, Hetty reached the turning of the lane that led 
to the farmyard gate, she saw Dinah and Seth approaching it 20 
from the opposite direction, and waited for them to come up 
to her. They, too, like Hetty, had lingered a little in their 
walk, for Dinah was trying to speak words of comfort and 
strength to Seth in these parting moments. But when they 
saw Hetty, they paused and shook hands: Seth turned home-25 
wards, and Dinah came on alone. 

“Seth Bede would have come and spoken to you, my dear,” 
she said, as she reached Hetty, “but he’s very full of trouble 
to-night. ” 

Hetty answered with a dimpled smile, as if she did not quite 30 
know what had been said; and it made a strange contrast to 
see that sparkling self-engrossed loveliness looked at by 
Dinah’s calm pitying face, with its open glance which told 
that her heart lived in no cherished secrets of its own, but in 
feelings which it longed to share with all the world. Hetty 35 
liked Dinah as well as she had ever liked any woman; how 
was it possible to feel otherwise towards one who always put 


152 


ADAM BEDE 


in a kind word for her when her aunt was finding fault, and 
who was always ready to take Totty off her hands little 
tiresome Totty, that was made such a pet of by every one, and 
that Hetty could see no interest in at all? Dinah had never 
5 said anything disapproving or reproachful to Hetty during 
her whole visit to the Hall Farm; she had talked to her a great 
deal in a serious way, but Hetty didn’t mind that much, for 
she never listened: whatever Dinah might say, she almost 
always stroked Hetty’s cheek after it, and wanted to do some 
io mending for her. Dinah was a riddle to her; Hetty looked at 
her much in the same way as one might imagine a little perch¬ 
ing bird that could only flutter from bough to bough, to look 
at the swoop of the swallow or the mounting of the lark; but she 
did not care to solve such riddles, any more than she cared to 
i 5 know what was meant by the pictures in the °“ Pilgrim’s 
Progress,” or in the old folio Bible that Marty and Tommy 
always plagued her about on a Sunday. 

Dinah took her hand now and drew it under her own arm. 

“You look very happy to-night, dear child,” she said. 
20 “I shall think of you often when I’m at Snowfield, and see 
your face before me as it is now. It’s a strange thing—some¬ 
times when I’m quite alone, sitting in my room with my eyes 
closed, or walking over the hills, the people I’ve seen and 
known, if it’s only been for a few days, are brought before me, 
25 and I hear their voices and see them look and move almost 
plainer than I ever did when they were really with me so as I 
could touch them. And then my heart is drawn out towards 
them, and I feel their lot as if it was my own, and I take com¬ 
fort in spreading it before the Lord and resting in His love, on 
30 their behalf as well as my own. And so I feel sure you will 
come before me. ” 

She paused a moment, but Hetty said nothing. 

“It has been a very precious time to me,” Dinah went on, 
“last night and to-day—seeing two such good sons as Adam 
35 and Seth Bede. They are so tender and thoughtful for their 
aged mother. And she has been telling me what Adam has 
done, for these many years, to help his father and his brother; 


THE RETURN HOME 


*53 


it’s wonderful what a spirit of wisdom and knowledge he has, 
and how he’s ready to use it all in behalf of them that are 
feeble. And I’m sure he has a loving spirit too. I’ve noticed 
it often among my own people round Snowfield, that °the 
strong, skilful men are often the gentlest to the women and 5 
children; and it’s pretty to see ’em carrying the little babies as 
if they were no heavier than little birds. And the babies al¬ 
ways seem to like the strong arm best. I feel sure it would be 
so with Adam Bede. Don’t you think so, Hetty ? ” 

“Yes,” said Hetty, abstractedly, for her mind had been all 10 
the while in the wood, and she would have found it difficult to 
say what she was assenting to. Dinah saw she was not inclined 
to talk, but there would not have been time to say much 
more, for they were now at the yard-gate. 

The still twilight, with its dying western red, and its few 15 
faint struggling stars, rested on the farmyard, where there was 
not a sound to be heard but the stamping of the cart-horses in 
the stable. It was about twenty minutes after sunset: the 
fowls were all gone to roost, and the bull-dog lay stretched on 
the straw outside his kennel, with the black-and-tan terrier 20 
by his side, when the falling-to of the gate disturbed them, and 
set them barking, like good officials, before they had any dis¬ 
tinct knowledge of the reason. 

The barking had its effect in the house, for, as Dinah and 
Hetty approached, the doorway was filled by a portly figure, 25 
with a ruddy black-eyed face, which bore in it the possibility 
of looking extremely acute, and occasionally contemptuous, 
on market-days, but had now a predominant after-supper 
expression of hearty good-nature. It is well known that great 
scholars who have shown the most pitiless acerbity in their 30 
criticism of other men’s scholarship, have yet been of a relent¬ 
ing and indulgent temper in private life; and I have heard of a 
learned man meekly rocking the twins in the cradle with his 
left hand, while with his righ't he inflicted the most lacerating 
sarcasms on an opponent who had betrayed a brutal ignorance 35 
of Hebrew. Weaknesses and errors must be forgiven—alas! 
they are not alien to us—but the man who takes the wrong 




ADAM BEDE 


154 

side on the momentous subject of the °Hebrew points must 
be treated as the enemy of his race. There was the same sort 
of antithetic mixture in Martin Poyser: he was of so excellent 
a disposition that he had been kinder and more respectful 
3 than ever to his old father since he had made a deed of gift 
of all his property, and no man judged his neighbours more 
charitably on all personal matters; but for a farmer, like Luke 
Britton, for example, whose fallows were not well cleaned, who 
didn’t know the rudiments of hedging and ditching, and showed 
IO but a small share of judgment in the purchase of winter 
stock, Martin Poyser was as hard and implacable as the north¬ 
east wind. Luke Britton could not make a remark, even on 
the weather, but Martin Poyser detected in it a taint of that 
unsoundness and general ignorance which was palpable in all 
15 his farming operations. He hated to see the fellow lift the 
pewter pint to his mouth in the bar of the Royal George on 
market-day, and the mere sight of him on the other side of the 
road brought severe and critical expression into his black eyes, 
as different as possible from the fatherly glance he bent on his 
20 two nieces as they approached the door. Mr. Poyser had 
smoked his evening pipe, and now held his hands in his pockets, 
as the only resource of a man who continues to sit up after the 
day’s business is done. 

“Why, lasses, ye’re rather late to-night, he said, when 
25 they reached the little gate leading into the causeway. “The 
mother’s begun to fidget about you, an’ she’s got the little un 
ill. An’ how did you leave the old woman Bede, Dinah? Is 
she much down about the old man? He’d been but a poor bar¬ 
gain to her this five year. ” . 

30 “She’s been greatly distressed for the loss of him, said 
Dinah; “but she’s seemed more comforted to-day. Her son 
Adam’s been at home all day, working at his father’s coffin, 
and she loves to havfe him at home. She’s been talking about 
him to me almost all the day. She has a loving heart, though 
35 she’s sorely given to fret and be fearful. I wish she had a 
surer trust to comfort her in her old age.” 

“Adam’s sure enough,” said Mr. Poyser, misunderstanding 


THE RETURN HOME 


155 

Dinah’s wish. ? “There’s no fear but he’ll yield well i’ the 
threshing. He’s not one o’ them as is all straw and no grain. 
I’ll be bond for him any day, as he’ll be a good son to the last. 
Did he say he’d be coming to see us soon ? But come in, come 
in,” he added, making way for them; “I hadn’t need keep y’ 5 
out any longer. ” 

The tall buildings round the yard shut out a good deal of 
the sky, but the large window let in abundant light to show 
every corner of the house-place. 

Mrs. Poyser, seated in the rocking-chair, which had been 10 
brought out of the “ right-hand parlour,” was trying to soothe 
Totty to sleep. But Totty was not disposed to sleep; and 
when her cousins entered, she raised herself up, and showed a 
pair of flushed cheeks, which looked fatter than ever now they 
were defined by the edge of her linen night-cap. 15 

In the large wicker-bottomed arm-chair in the left-hand 
chimney-nook sat old Martin Poyser, a hale but shrunken and 
bleached image of his portly black-haired son—his head 
hanging forward a little, and his elbows pushed backwards so 
as to allow the whole of his fore-arm to rest on the arm of the 20 
chair. His blue handkerchief was spread over his knees, as 
was usual indoors, when it was not hanging over his head; and 
he sat watching what went forward with the quiet outward 
glance of healthy old age, which, disengaged from any interest 
in an inward drama, spies out pins upon the floor, follows one’s 25 
minutest motions with an unexpectant purposeless tenacity, 
watches the flickering of the flame or the sun-gleams on the 
wall, counts the quarries on the floor, watches even the hand of 
the clock, and pleases itself with detecting a rhythm in the tick. 

“What a time o’ night this is to come home, Hetty!” said 30 
Mrs. Poyser. “Look at the clock, do; why, it’s going on for 
half-past nine, and I’ve sent the gells to bed this half-hour, 
and late enough too; when they’ve got to get up at half after 
four, and the mowers’ bottles to fill, and the baking; and here’s 
this blessed child wi’ the fever for what I know, and as wakeful 35: 
as if it was dinner-time, and nobody to help me to give her the 
physic but your uncle, and fine work there’s been, and half of 




ADAM BEDE 


156 

it spilt on her night-gown—it’s well if she’s swallowed more 
nor ull make her worse istead o’ better. But folks as have no 
mind to be o’ use have allays the luck to be out o’ the road 
when there’s anything to be done. ” 

5 “I did set out before eight, aunt,” said Hetty, in a pettish 
tone, with a slight toss of her head. “ But this clock’s so much 
before the clock at the Chase, there’s no telling what time it’ll 
be when I get here. ” 

“What! you’d be wanting the clock set by gentlefolks’s 
10 time, would you? an’ sit up burniri’ candle, an’ lie a-bed wi’ the 
sun a-bakin’ you like a °cowcumber i’ the frame? The clock 
hasn’t been put forrard for the first time to-day, I reckon.” 

The fact was, Hetty had really forgotten the difference of 
the clocks when she told Captain Donnithorne that she set 
15 out at eight, and this, with her lingering pace, had made her 
nearly half an hour later than usual. But here her aunt’s 
attention was diverted from this tender subject by Totty, 
who, perceiving at length that the arrival of her cousins was 
not likely to bring anything satisfactory to her in particular, 
20 began to cry, “Munny, munny,” in an explosive manner. 

“Well, then, my pet, mother’s got her, mother won’t leave 
her; Totty be a good dilling, and go to sleep now,” said Mrs. 
Poyser, leaning back and rocking the chair, while she tried 
to make Totty nestle against her. But Totty only cried 
25 louder, and said, “Don’t yock!” So the mother, with that 
wondrous patience which love gives to the quickest temper¬ 
ament, sat up again, and pressed her cheek against the linen 
night-cap and kissed it, and forgot to scold Hetty any longer. 

“Come, Hetty,” said Martin Poyser, in a conciliatory 
30 tone, “go and get your supper i’ the pantry, as the things are 
all put away; an’ then you can come and take the little un 
while your aunt undresses herself, for she won’t lie down in bed 
without her mother. An’ I reckon you could eat a bit, Dinah, 
for they don’t keep much of a house down there.” 

35 “No, thank you, uncle,” said Dinah; “I ate a good meal 
before I came away, for Mrs. Bede would make a kettle-cake 
for me.” 


THE RETURN HOME 


157 

“I don’t want any supper,” said Hetty, taking off her hat. 

“ I can hold Totty now, if aunt wants me. ” 

“Why, what nonsense that is to talk!” said Mrs. Poyser. 
“Do you think you can live wi’out eatin’, an’ nourish your 
inside wi’ stickin’ red ribbons on your head ? Go an’ get your 5 
supper this minute, child; there’s a nice bit o’ cold pudding i’ 
the safe—just what you’re fond of.” 

Hetty complied silently by going towards the pantry, and 
Mrs. Poyser went on speaking to Dinah. 

°“ Sit down, my dear, an’ look as if you knowed what it was 10 
to make yourself a bit comfortable i’ the world. I warrant 
the old woman was glad to see you, since you stayed so long. ” 
“She seemed to like having me there at last; but her sons 
say she doesn’t like young women about her commonly; and I 
thought just at first she was almost angry with me for going.” 15 
“Eh, it’s a poor look-out when th’ ould folks doesna like 
the young uns,” said old Martin, bending his head down 
lower, and seeming to trace the pattern of the quarries with 
his eye. 

“Ay, it’s ill livin’ in a hen-roost for them as doesn’t like 20 
fleas,” said Mrs. Poyser. “We’ve all had our turn at bein’ 
young, I reckon, be’t good luck or ill. ” 

“But she must learn to ’commodate herself to young 
women,” said Mr. Poyser, “for it isn’t to be counted on as 
Adam and Seth ’ull keep bachelors for the next ten year to 25 
please their mother. That ’ud be unreasonable. It isn’t right 
for old nor young nayther to make a bargain all o’ their own 
side. What’s good for one’s good all round i’ the long-run. 
I’m no friend to young fellows a-marrying afore they know the 
difference atween a crab an’ a apple; but they may wait o’er 3 c 
long. ” 

“ To be sure, ” said Mrs. Poyser; “ if you go past your dinner¬ 
time, there’ll be little relish o’ your meat. You turn it o’er an’ 
o’er wi’ your fork, an’ don’t eat it after all. You find faut 
wi’ your meat, an’ the faut’s all i’ your own stomach. ” 35 

Hetty now came back from the pantry, and said, “I can 
take Totty now, aunt, if you like.” 


158 


ADAM BEDE 


“Come, Rachel,” said Mr. Poyser, as his wife seemed to 
hesitate, seeing that Totty was at last nestling quietly, 
“thee’dst better let Hetty carry her up-stairs, while thee 
tak’st thy things off. Thee’t tired. It s time^thee wast in 
5 bed. Thee’t bring on the pain in thy side again.’ „ 

“Well, she may hold her if the child ’ull go to her, said 

Mrs. Poyser. . . 

Hetty went close to the rocking-chair, and stood without 
her usual smile, and without any attempt to entice Totty, 
io simply waiting for her aunt to give the child into her hands. 

“Wilt go to cousin Hetty, my dilling, while mother gets 
ready to go to. bed? Then Totty shall go into mother’s bed, 
and sleep there all night. ” 

Before her mother had done speaking, Totty had given her 
15 answer in an unmistakable manner, by knitting her brow, 
setting her tiny teeth against her under-lip, and leaning for¬ 
ward to slap Hetty on the arm with her utmost force. Then, 
without speaking, she nestled to her mother again. 

“Hey, hey,” said Mr. Poyser, while Hetty stood without 
20moving, “not go to cousin Hetty? That’s like a babby: 
Totty’s a little woman, an’ not a babby.” 

“It’s no use trying to persuade her,’’ said Mrs. Poyser. 
“ She allays takes against Hetty when she isn’t well. Happen 
she’ll go to Dinah.” . . .... 

25 Dinah, having taken off her bonnet and shawl, had hitherto 
kept quietly seated in the background, not liking to thrust 
herself between Hetty and what was considered Hetty s 
proper work. But now she came forward, and, putting out 
her arms, said, “Come Totty, come and let Dinah carry her 
30 up-stairs along with mother: poor, poor mother! she s so 
tired—she wants to go to bed. ” 

Totty turned her face towards Dinah, and looked at her 
an instant, then lifted herself up, put out her little arms, and 
let Dinah lift her from her mother’s lap. Hetty turned away 
35 without any sign of ill-humour, and, taking her hat from the 
table, stood waiting with an air of indifference, to see if she 
should be told to do anything else. 


THE RETURN HOME 


159 


“You may make the door fast now, Poyser; Alick’s been 
come in this long while, ” said Mrs. Poyser, rising with an 
appearance of relief from her low chair. “ Get me the matches 
down, Hetty, for I must have the °rushlight burning i’ my 
room. Come, father.” 5 

The heavy wooden bolts began to roll in the house doors, 
and old Martin prepared to move, by gathering up his blue 
handkerchief, and reaching his bright knobbed walnut-tree 
stick from the corner. Mrs. Poyser then led the way out of 
the kitchen, followed by the grandfather, and Dinah with 10 
Totty in her arms—all going to bed by twilight, like the birds. 
Mrs. Poyser, on her way, peeped into the room where her 
two boys lay, just to see their ruddy round cheeks on the 
pillow, and to hear for a moment their light regular breathing. 

“Come, Hetty, get to bed,” said Mr. Poyser, in a soothing is 
tone, as he himself turned to go up-stairs. ‘‘You didna mean 
to be late, Pll be bound, but your aunt’s been worrited to-day. 
Good-night, my °wench, good-night. ” 


CHAPTER XV 


THE TWO BED-CHAMBERS 

Hetty and Dinah both slept in the second story, in rooms 
adjoining each other, meagrely-furnished rooms, with no 
blinds to shut out the light, which was now beginning to 
gather new strength from the rising of the moon—more than 
s enough strength to enable Hetty to move about and undress 
with perfect comfort. She could see quite well the pegs in the 
old painted linen-press on which she hung her hat and gown; 
she could see the head of every pin on her red cloth pin-cush¬ 
ion; she could see a reflection of herself in the old-fashioned 
io looking-glass, quite as distinct as was needful, considering 
that she had only to brush her hair and put on her night-cap. 
A queer old looking-glass! Hetty got into an ill-temper with 
it almost every time she dressed. It had been considered a 
handsome glass in its day, and had probably been bought into 
i 5 the Poyser family a quarter of a century before, at a sale of 
genteel household furniture. Even now an auctioneer could 
say something for it: it had a great deal of tarnished gilding 
about it; it had a firm mahogany base, well supplied with 
drawers, which opened with a decided jerk, and sent the con- 
20 tents leaping out from the farthest corners, without giving 
you the trouble of reaching them; above all, it had a brass 
candle-socket on each side, which would give it an aristocratic 
air to the very last. But Hetty objected to it because it had 
numerous dim blotches sprinkled over the mirror, which no 
25 rubbing would remove, and because, instead of swinging 
backwards and forwards, it was fixed in an upright position, 
so that she could only get one good view of her head and neck, 
and that was to be had only by sitting down on a low chair 
before her dressing-table. And the dressing-table was no 

160 


THE TWO BED-CHAMBERS 


161 


dressing-table at all, but a small old chest of drawers, the most 
awkward thing in the world to sit down before, for the big 
brass handles quite hurt her knees, and she couldn’t get near 
the glass at all comfortably. But devout worshippers never 
allow inconveniences to prevent them from performing their 5 
religious rites, and Hetty this evening was more bent on her 
peculiar form of worship than usual. 

Having taken off her gown and white kerchief, she drew a 
key from the large pocket that hung outside her petticoat, 
and, unlocking one of the lower drawers in the chest, reached 10 
from it two short bits of wax candle—secretly bought at 
Treddleston—and stuck them in the two brass sockets. Then 
she drew forth a bundle of matches, and lighted the candles; 
and last of all, a small red-framed shilling looking-glass, with¬ 
out blotches. It was into this small glass that she chose to 15 
look first after seating herself. She looked into it, smiling, and 
turning her head on one side, for a minute, then laid it down 
and took out her brush and comb from an upper drawer. She 
was going to let down her hair, and make herself look like that 
picture of a lady in Miss Lydia Donnithorne’s dressing-room, co 
It was soon done, and the dark hyacinthine curves fell on her 
cheek. It was not heavy, massive, merely rippling hair, but 
soft and silken, running at every opportunity into delicate 
rings. But she pushed it all backward to look like the picture, 
and form a dark curtain, throwing into relief her round white 25 
neck. Then she put down her brush and comb, and looked at 
herself, folding her arms before her, still like the picture. Even 
the old mottled glass couldn’t help sending back a lovely 
image, none the less lovely because Hetty s stays were not of 
white satin—such as I feel sure heroines must generally wear 30 
—but of a dark greenish cotton texture. 

Oh yes! she was very pretty: Captain Donnithorne thought 
so. Prettier than anybody about Hayslope—prettier than 
any of the ladies she had ever seen visiting at the Chase— 
indeed it seemed fine ladies were rather old and ugly—and 35 
prettier than Miss Bacon, the miller’s daughter, who was 
called the beauty of Treddleston. And Hetty looked at herself 


162 


ADAM BEDE 


to-night with quite a different sensation from what she had 
ever felt before; there was an invisible spectator whose eye 
rested on her like morning on the flowers. His soft voice was 
saying over and over again those pretty things she had heard 
5 in the wood; his arm was round her, and the delicate rose- 
scent of his hair was with her still. The vainest woman is 
never thoroughly conscious of her own beauty till she is loved 
by the man who sets her own passion vibrating in return. 

But Hetty seemed to have made up her mind that some- 
io thing was wanting, for she got up and reached an old black 
lace scarf out of the linen-press, and a pair of large earrings 
out of the sacred drawer from which she had taken her 
candles. It was an old old scarf, full of rents, but it would 
make a becoming border round her shoulders, and set off the 
is whiteness of her upper arm. And she would take out the little 
earrings she had in her ears—oh, how her aunt had scolded 
her for having her ears bored!—and put in those large ones: 
they were but coloured glass and gilding; but if you didn’t 
know what they were made of, they looked just as well as 
20 what the ladies wore. And so she sat down again, with the 
large earrings in her ears, and the black lace scarf adjusted 
round her shoulders. She looked down at her arms; no arms 
could be prettier down to a little way below the elbow—they 
were white and plump, and dimpled to match her cheeks; but 
25 towards the wrist, she thought with vexation that they were 
coarsened by butter-making, and other work that ladies never 

did. 

Captain Donnithorne couldn’t like her to go on doing work: 
he would like to see her in nice clothes, and thin shoes and 
3 o white stockings, perhaps with silk clocks to them; for he must 
love her very much—no one else had ever put his arm round 
her and kissed her in that way. He would want to marry her, 
and make a lady of her; she could hardly dare to shape the 
thought—yet how else could it be? Marry her quite secretly, 
35 as Mr. James, the Doctor’s assistant, married the Doctor’s 
niece, and nobody ever found it out for a long while after, and 
then it was of no use to be angry. The Doctor had told her 


THE TWO BED-CHAMBERS 


163 

aunt all about it in Hetty’s hearing. She didn’t know how it 
would be, but it was quite plain the old Squire could never be 
told anything about it, for Hetty was ready to faint with awe 
and fright if she came across him at the Chase. He might have 
been earth-born, for what she knew: it had never entered her 5 
mind that he had been young like other men; he had always 
been the old Squire at whom everybody was frightened. Oh 
it was impossible to think how it would be! But Captain 
Donnithorne would know; he was a great gentleman, and 
could have his way in everything, and could buy everything 10 
he liked. And nothing could be as it had been again: perhaps 
some day she should be a grand lady, and ride in her couch, 
and dress for dinner in a brocaded silk, with feathers in her 
hair, and her dress sweeping the ground, like Miss Lydia and 
Lady Dacey, when she saw them going into the dining-room 15 
one evening, as she peeped through the little round window in 
the lobby; only she should not be old and ugly like Miss Lydia, 
or all the same thickness like Lady Dacey, but very pretty, 
with her hair done in a great many different ways, and some¬ 
times in a pink dress, and sometimes in a white one—she 20 
didn’t know which she liked best; and Mary Burge and every¬ 
body would perhaps see her going out in her carriage—or 
rather, they would hear of it: it was impossible to imagine 
these things happening at Hayslope in sight of her aunt. At 
the thought of all this splendour, Hetty got up from her chair, 25 
and in doing so caught the little red-framed glass with the edge 
of her scarf, so that it fell with a bang on the floor; but she was 
too eagerly occupied with her vision to care about picking it 
up; and after a momentary start, began to pace with a pigeon¬ 
like stateliness backwards and forwards along her room, in 30 
her coloured stays and coloured skirt, and the old black lace 
scarf round her shoulders, and the great glass earrings in her 
ears. 

How pretty the little puss looks in that odd dress! It would 
be the easiest folly in the world to fall in love with her: there 35 
is such a sweet baby-like roundness about her face and figure; 
the delicate dark rings of hair lie so charmingly about her ears 


ADAM BEDE 


164 

and neck; her great dark eyes with their long eyelashes touch 
one so strangely, as if an imprisoned frisky sprite looked out of 

them. . 

Ah, what a prize the man gets who wins a sweet bride like 
s Hetty! How the men envy him who come to the wedding 
breakfast, and see her hanging on his arm in her white lace and 
orange blossoms. The dear, young, round, soft, flexible 
thing! Her heart must be just as soft, her temper just as free 
from angles, her character just as pliant. If anything ever 
10goes wrong, it must be the husband’s fault there: he can make 
her what he likes—that is plain. And the lover himself thinks 
so too: the little darling is so fond of him, her little vanities are 
so bewitching, he wouldn’t consent to her being a bit wiser; 
those kitten-like glances and movements are just what one 
is wants to make one’s hearth a paradise. Every man under 
such circumstances is conscious of being a great physiog¬ 
nomist. Nature, he knows, has a language of her own, which 
she uses with strict veracity, and he considers himself an adept 
in the language. Nature has written out his bride’s character 
20 for him in those exquisite lines of cheek and lip and chin, in 
those eyelids delicate as petals, in those long lashes curled like 
the stamen of a flower, in the dark liquid depths of those 
wonderful eyes. How she will doat on her children! She is 
almost a child herself, and the little pink round things will 
25 hang about her like florets round the central flower; and the 
husband will look on, smiling benignly, able, whenever he 
chooses, to withdraw into the sanctuary of his wisdom, to¬ 
wards which his sweet wife will look reverently, and never lift 
the curtain. It is a marriage such as they made in the golden 
30 age, when the men were all wise and majestic, and the women 
all lovely and loving. 

It was very much in this way that our friend Adam Bede 
thought about Hetty; only he put his thoughts into different 
words. If ever she behaved with cold vanity towards him, 
35 he said to himself, it is only because she doesn’t love me well 
enough; and he was sure that her love, whenever she gave it, 
would be the most precious thing a man could possess on 


THE TWO BED-CHAMBERS 


1 65 

earth. Before you despise Adam as deficient in penetration, 
pray ask yourself if you were ever predisposed to believe evil 
of any pretty woman—if you ever could , without hard head¬ 
breaking demonstration, believe evil of the one supremely 
pretty woman who has bewitched you. No: people who love 5 
downy peaches are apt to think of the stone, and sometimes 
jar their teeth terribly against it. 

Arthur Donnithorne, too, had the same sort of notion about 
Hetty, so far as he had thought of her nature at all. He felt 
sure she was a dear, affectionate, good little thing. The man 10 
who awakes the wondering tremulous passion of a young girl 
always thinks her affectionate; and if he chances to look for¬ 
ward to future years, probably imagines himself being vir¬ 
tuously tender to her, because the poor thing is so clingingly 
fond of him. God made these dear women so—and it is a 15 
convenient arrangement in case of sickness. 

After all, I believe the wisest of us must be beguiled in this 
way sometimes, and must think both better and worse of 
people than they deserve. Nature has her language, and she 
is not unveracious; but we don’t know all the intricacies of her 20 
syntax just yet, and in a hasty reading we may happen to 
extract the very opposite of her real meaning. Long dark eye¬ 
lashes, now; what can be more exquisite? I find it impossible 
not to expect some depth of soul behind a deep grey eye with a 
long dark eyelash, in spite of an experience which has shown 25 
me that they may go along with deceit, peculation, and 
stupidity. But if, in the reaction of disgust, I have betaken 
myself to a fishy eye, there has been a surprising similarity of 
result. One begins to suspect at length that there is no direct 
correlation between eyelashes and morals; or else, that the 3 j 
eyelashes express the disposition of the fair one’s grandmother, 
which is on the whole less important to us. 

No eyelashes could be more beautiful than Hetty’s; and 
now, while she walks with her pigeon-like stateliness along 
the room and looks down on her shoulders bordered by 35 
the old black lace, the dark fringe shows to perfection on 
her pink cheek. They are but dim, ill-defined pictures that 


i66 


ADAM BEDE 


her narrow bit of an imagination can make of the future; 
but of every picture she is the central figure in fine clothes; 
Captain Donnithorne is very close to her, putting his arm 
round her, perhaps kissing her, and everybody else is ad- 
5 miring and envying her—especially Mary Burge, whose new 
print dress looks very contemptible by the side of Hetty’s 
resplendent toilette. Does any sweet or sad memory mingle 
with this dream of the future—any loving thought of her 
second parents—of the children she had helped to tend— 
io of any youthful companion, any pet animal, any relic of her 
own childhood even? Notone. There are some plants that 
have hardly any roots: you may tear them from their native 
nook of rock or wall, and just lay them over your ornamental 
flower-pot, and they blossom none the worse. Hetty could 
15 have cast all her past life behind her, and never cared to be 
reminded of it again. I think she had no feeling at all towards 
the old house, and did not like the Jacob’s Ladder and the long 
row of hollyhocks in the garden better than other flowers— 
perhaps not so well. It was wonderful how little she seemed 
20 to care about waiting on her uncle, who had been a good father 
to her: she hardly ever remembered to reach him his pipe at 
the right time without being told, unless a visitor happened to 
be there, who would have a better opportunity of seeing her 
as she walked across the hearth. Hetty did not understand 
25 how anybody could be very fond of middle-aged people. And 
as for those tiresome children, Marty and Tommy and Totty, 
they had been the very nuisance of her life—as bad as buzzing 
insects that will come teasing you on a hot day when you want 
to be quiet. Marty, the eldest, was a baby when she first came 
30 to the farm, for the children born before him had died, and so 
Hetty had had them all three, one after the other, toddling by 
her side in the meadow, or playing about her on wet days in 
the half-empty rooms of the large old house. The boys were 
out of hand now, but Totty was still a day-long plague, worse 
35 than either of the others had been, because there was more 
fuss made about her. And there was no end to the making and 
mending of clothes. Hetty would have been glad to hear that 


THE TWO BED-CHAMBERS 


167 

she should never see a child again; they were worse than the 
nasty little lambs that the shepherd was always bringing in to 
be taken special care of in lambing time; for the lambs were 
got rid of sooner or later. As for the young chickens and 
turkeys, Hetty would have hated the very word “ hatching/* 5 
if her aunt had not bribed her to attend to the young poultry 
by promising her the proceeds of one out of every brood. The 
round downy chicks peeping out from under their mother’s 
wing never touched Hetty with any pleasure; that was not the 
sort of prettiness she cared about, but she did care about the 10 
prettiness of the new things she would buy for herself at Tred- 
dleston fair with the money they fetched. And yet she looked 
so dimpled, so charming, as she stooped down to put the soaked 
bread under the hen-coop, that you must have been a very 
acute personage indeed to suspect her of that hardness. Molly, 15 
the housemaid, with a turn-up nose and a protuberant jaw, 
was really a tender-hearted girl, and, as Mrs. Poyser said, a 
jewel to look after the poultry; but her stolid face showed 
nothing of this maternal delight, any more than a brown 
earthenware pitcher will show the light of the lamp within it. 20 

It is generally a feminine eye that first detects the moral 
deficiencies hidden under the “dear deceit” of beauty: so it is 
not surprising that Mrs. Poyser, with her keenness and abun¬ 
dant opportunity for observation, should have formed a 
tolerably fair estimate of what might be expected from Hetty 25 
in the way of feeling, and in moments of indignation she had 
sometimes spoken with great openness on the subject to her 
husband. 

“She’s no better than a peacock, as ’ud strut about on the 
wall, and spread its tail when the sun shone if all the folks i’ 30 
the parish was dying: there’s nothing seems to give her a turn 
i’ th’ inside, not even when we thought Totty had tumbled 
into the pit. To think o’ that dear cherub! And we found her 
wi’ her little shoes stuck i’ the mud an’ crying fit to break her 
heart by the far horse-pit. But Hetty never minded it, I could 35 
see, though she’s been at the nussin’ o’ the child ever since it 
was a babby. It’s my belief her heart’s as hard as a pebble.” 


168 


ADAM BEDE 


“Nay, nay,” said Mr. Poyser, “thee mustn’t judge Hetty 
too hard. Them young gells are like the unripe grain; they’ll 
make good meal by-and-by, but they’re squashy as yet. 
Thee’t see Hetty’ll be all right when she’s got a good husband 
s and children of her own. ” 

“/ don’t want to be hard upo’ the gell. She’s got diver 
fingers of her own, and can be useful enough when she likes, 
and I should miss her wi’ the butter, for she’s got a cool hand. 
An’ let be what may, I’d strive to do my part by a niece o’ 
ioyours, an’ that I’ve done: for I’ve taught her everything as 
belongs to a house, an’ I’ve told her her duty often enough, 
though, God knows, I’ve no breath to spare, an’ that catchin’ 
pain comes on dreadful by times. Wi’ them three gells in the 
house I’d need have twice the strength, to keep ’em up to their 
15 work. It’s like having roast meat at three fires; as soon as 
you’ve basted one, another’s burnin’.” 

Hetty stood sufficiently in awe of her aunt to be anxious to 
conceal from her so much of her vanity as could be hidden 
without too great a sacrifice. She could not resist spending her 
20 money in bits of finery which Mrs. Poyser disapproved; but 
she would have been ready to die with shame, vexation, and 
fright, if her aunt had this moment opened the door, and seen 
her with her bits of candle lighted, and strutting about decked 
in her scarf and earrings. To prevent such a surprise, she 
25 always bolted her door, and she had not forgotten to do so 
to-night. It was well: for there now came a light tap, and 
Hetty, with a leaping heart, rushed to blow out the candles and 
throw them into the drawer. She dared not stay to take out 
her earrings, but she threw off her scarf, and let it fall on the 
30 floor, before the light tap came again. We shall know how it 
was that the light tap came, if we leave Hetty for a short time, 
and return to Dinah, at the moment when she had delivered 
Totty to her mother’s arms, and was come up-stairs to her 
bedroom, adjoining Hetty’s. 

35 Dinah delighted in her bedroom window. Being on the 
second story of that tall house, it gave her a wide view over 
the fields. The thickness of the wall formed a broad step about 


THE TWO BED-CHAMBERS 


169 

a yard below the window, where she could place her chair. 
And now the first thing she did on entering her room, was to 
seat herself in this chair, and look out on the peaceful fields 
beyond which the large moon was rising, just above the 
hedgerow elms. She liked the pasture best where the milch 5 
cows were lying, and next to that the meadow where the grass 
was half mown, and lay in silvered sweeping lines. Her heart 
was very full, for there was to be only one more night on which 
she would look out on those fields for a long time to come; but 
she thought little of leaving the mere scene, for, to her, bleak 10 
Snowfield had just as many charms: she thought of all the dear 
people whom she had learned to care for among these peaceful 
fields, and who would now have a place in her loving remem¬ 
brance for ever. She thought of the struggles and the weari¬ 
ness that might lie before them in the rest of their life’s jour- 15 
ney, when she would be away from them, and know nothing 
of what was befalling them; and the pressure of this thought 
soon became too strong for her to enjoy the unresponding still¬ 
ness of the moonlit fields. She closed her eyes, that she might 
feel more intensely the presence of a Love and Sympathy 20 
deeper and more tender than was breathed from the earth and 
sky. That was often Dinah’s mode of praying in solitude. 
Simply to close her eyes, and to feel herself enclosed by the 
Divine Presence; then gradually her fears, her yearning anx¬ 
ieties for others, melted away like ice-crystals in a warm 25 
ocean. She had sat in this way perfectly still, with her hands 
crossed on her lap, and the pale light resting on her calm face, 
for at least ten minutes, when she was startled by a loud sound, 
apparently of something falling in Hetty’s room. But like all 
sounds that fall on our ears in a state of abstraction, it had no 30 
distinct character, but was simply loud and startling, so that 
she felt uncertain whether she had interpreted it rightly. She 
rose and listened, but all was quiet afterwards, and she reflected 
that Hetty might merely have knocked something down in 
getting into bed. She began slowly to undress; but now, owing 35 
to the suggestions of this sound, her thoughts became con¬ 
centrated on Hetty: that sweet young thing, with life and all 


ADAM BEDE 


170 

its trials before her—the solemn daily duties of the wife and 
mother—and her mind so unprepared for them all; bent 
merely on little foolish, selfish pleasures, like a child hugging 
its toys in the beginning of a long toilsome journey, in which 
s it will have to bear hunger and cold and unsheltered darkness. 
Dinah felt a double care for Hetty, because she shared Seth’s 
anxious interest in his brother’s lot, and she had not come to 
the conclusion that Hetty did not love Adam well enough to 
marry him. She saw too clearly the absence of any warm, self- 
10 devoting love in Hetty’s nature, to regard the coldness of her 
behaviour towards Adam as any indication that he was not 
the man she would like to have for a husband. And this blank 
in Hetty’s nature, instead of exciting Dinah’s dislike, only 
touched her with a deeper pity: the lovely face and form 
15 affected her as beauty always affects a pure and tender mind, 
free from selfish jealousies: it was an excellent divine gift, that 
gave a deeper pathos to the need, the sin, the sorrow with 
which it was mingled, as the canker in a lily-white bud is more 
grievous to behold than in a common pot-herb. 

20 By the time Dinah had undressed and put on her night¬ 
gown, this feeling about Hetty had gathered a painful inten¬ 
sity; her imagination had created a thorny thicket of sin and 
sorrow, in which she saw the poor thing struggling torn and 
bleeding, looking with tears for rescue and finding none. It 
25 was in this way that Dinah’s imagination and sympathy acted 
and reacted habitually, each heightening the other. She felt a 
deep longing to go now and pour into Hetty’s ear all the words 
of tender warning and appeal that rushed into her mind. But 
perhaps Hetty was already asleep. Dinah put her ear to the 
30 partition, and heard still some slight noises, which convinced 
her that Hetty was not yet in bed. Still she hesitated; she 
was not quite certain of a divine direction; the voice that told 
her to go to Hetty seemed no stronger than the other voice 
which said that Hetty was weary, and that going to her now 
35 in an unseasonable moment would only tend to close her heart 
more obstinately. Dinah was not satisfied without a more 
unmistakable guidance than those inward voices. There was 


THE TWO-BED CHAMBERS 


171 

light enough for her, if she opened her Bible, to discern the 
text sufficiently to know what it would say to her. She knew 
the physiognomy of every page, and could tell on what book 
she opened, sometimes on what chapter, without seeing title 
or number. It was a small thick Bible, worn quite round at 5 
the edges. Dinah laid it sideways on the window ledge, where 
the light was strongest, and then opened it with her forefinger. 
The first words she looked at were those at the top of the left- 
hand page. °“And they all wept sore, and fell on Paul’s neck 
and kissed him. ” That was enough for Dinah; she had opened 10 
on that memorable parting at Ephesus, when Paul had felt 
bound to open his heart in a last exhortation and warning. 
She hesitated no longer, but, opening her own door gently, 
went and tapped at Hetty’s. We know she had to tap twice, 
because Hetty had to put out her candles and throw off her 15 
black lace scarf; but after the second tap the door was opened 
immediately. Dinah said, “Will you let me come in, Hetty?” 
and Hetty, without speaking, for she was confused and vexed, 
opened the door wider and let her in. 

What a strange contrast the two figures made! Visible 20 
enough in that mingled twilight and moonlight. Hetty, her 
cheeks flushed and her eyes glistening from her imaginary 
drama, her beautiful neck and arms bare, her hair hanging in a 
curly tangle down her back, and the baubles in her ears. 
Dinah, covered with her long white dress, her pale face full 25 
of subdued emotion, almost like a lovely corpse into which the 
soul has returned charged with sublimer secrets and a sub- 
limer love. They were nearly of the same height; Dinah 
evidently a little the taller as she put her arm round Hetty’s 
waist, and kissed her forehead. 30 

“I knew you were not in bed, my dear,” she said, in her 
sweet clear voice, which was irritating to Hetty, mingling with 
her own peevish vexation like music with jangling chains, 
“for I heard you moving; and I longed to speak to you again 
to-night, for it is the last but one that I shall be here, and we 35 
don’t know what may happen to-morrow to keep us apart. 
Shall I sit down with you while you do up your hair?” 


172 


ADAM BEDE 


‘‘Oh yes,” said Hetty, hastily turning round and reaching 
the, second chair in the room, glad that Dinah looked as if she 
did not notice her earrings. 

Dinah sat down, and Hetty began to brush together her 
5 hair before twisting it up, doing it with that air of excessive 
indifference which belongs to confused self-consciousness. 
But the expression of Dinah’s eyes gradually relieved her; 
they seemed unobservant of all details. . 

“ Dear Hetty, ” she said, “ it has been borne in upon my mind 
io to-night that you may some day be in trouble—trouble is 
appointed for us all here below, and there comes a time when 
we need more comfort and help than the things of this life can 
give. I want to tell you that if ever you are in trouble, and 
need a friend that will always feel for you and love you, you 
i 5 have got that friend in Dinah Morris, at Snowfield ; and if you 
come to her, or send for her, she’ll never forget this night and 
the words she is speaking to you now. Will you remember it, 
Hetty ? ” 

“Yes,” said Hetty, rather frightened. “But why should 
20 you think I shall be in trouble? Do you know of anything?” 

Hetty had seated herself as she tied on her cap, and now 
Dinah leaned forwards and took her hands as she answered— 

“Because, dear, trouble comes to us all in this life: we set 
our hearts on things which it isn’t God’s will for us to have, 
25 and then we go sorrowing; the people we love are taken from 
us, and we can joy in nothing because they are not with us; 
sickness comes, and we faint under the burden of our feeble 
bodies; we go astray and do wrong, and bring ourselves into 
trouble with our fellowmen. There is no man or woman born 
30 into this world to whom some of these trials do not fall, and so 
I feel that some of them must happen to you; and I desire for 
you, that while you are young you should seek for strength 
from your Heavenly Father, that you may have a support 
which will not fail you in the evil day.” 

35 Dinah paused and released Hetty’s hands that she might 
not hinder her. Hetty sat quite still; she felt no response 
within herself to Dinah’s anxious affection; but Dinah’s 


THE TWO-BED CHAMBERS 


173 

words, uttered with solemn pathetic distinctness, affected her 
with a chill fear. Her flush had died away almost to paleness; 
she had the timidity of a luxurious pleasure-seaking nature, 
which shrinks from the hint of pain. Dinah saw the effect, and 
her tender anxious pleading became the more earnest, till 5 
Hetty, full of a vague fear that something evil was some time 
to befall her, began to cry. 

°It is our habit to say that while the lower nature can never 
understand the higher, the higher nature commands a com¬ 
plete view of the lower. But I think the higher nature has to 10 
learn this comprehension, as we learn the art of vision, by a 
good deal of hard experience, often with bruises and gashes in¬ 
curred in taking things up by the wrong end, and fancying 
our space wider than it is. Dinah had never seen Hetty 
affected in this way before, and, with her usual benignant is 
hopefulness, she trusted it was the stirring of a divine impulse. 
She kissed the sobbing thing, and began to cry with her for 
grateful joy. But Hetty was simply in that excitable state of 
mind in which there is no calculating what turn the feelings 
may take from one moment to another, and for the first time 20 
she became irritated under Dinah’s caress. She pushed her 
away impatiently, and said, with a childish sobbing voice— 

“ Don’t talk to me so, Dinah. Why do you come to frighten 
me ? I’ve never done anything to you. Why can’t you let me 
be?” . . 25 

Poor Dinah felt a pang. She was too wise to persist, and 
only said mildly, “Yes, my dear, you’re tired; I won’t hinder 
you any longer. Make haste and get into bed. Good-night.” 

She went out of the room almost as quietly and quickly 
as if she had been a ghost; but once by the side of her own bed, 30 
she threw herself on her knees, and poured out in deep silence 
all the passionate pity that filled her heart. 

As for Hetty, she was soon in the wood again—her waking 
dreams being merged in a sleeping life scarcely more frag¬ 
mentary and confused. 35 


CHAPTER XVI 


LINKS 

Arthur Donnithorne, you remember, is under an engage¬ 
ment with himself to go and see Mr. Irwine this Friday morn¬ 
ing, and he is awake and dressing so early, that he determines 
to go before breakfast, instead of after. The Rector, he knows, 
5 breakfasts alone at half-past nine, the ladies of the family 
having a different breakfast-hour; Arthur will have an early 
ride over the hill and breakfast with him. °One can say 
everything best over a meal. 

°The progress of civilisation has made a breakfast or a 
io dinner an easy and cheerful substitute for more troublesome 
and disagreeable ceremonies. We take a less gloomy view 
of our errors now our father confessor listens to us over his 
egg and coffee. We are more distinctly conscious that rude 
penances are out of the question for gentlemen in an enlight- 
15 ened age, and that mortal sin is not incompatible with an 
appetite for muffins. An assault on our pockets, which in 
more barbarous times would have been made in the brusque 
form of a pistol-shot, is quite a well-bred and smiling procedure 
now it has become a request for a loan thrown in as an easy 
20 parenthesis between the second and third glasses of claret. 

°Still, there was this advantage in the old rigid forms, that 
they committed you to the fulfilment of a resolution by some 
outward deed: when you have put your mouth to one end of a 
hole in a stone wall, and are aware that there is an expectant 
25 ear at the other end, you are more likely to say what you came 
out with the intention of saying, than if you were seated with 
your legs in an easy attitude under the mahogany, with a com¬ 
panion who will have no reason to be surprised if you have 
nothing particular to say. 


l 7 4 


LINKS 


175 


However, Arthur Donnithorne, as he winds among the 
pleasant lanes on horseback in the morning sunshine, has a 
sincere determination to open his heart to the Rector, and the 
swirling sound of the scythe as he passes by the meadow is all 
the pleasanter to him because of this honest purpose. He is 5 
glad to see the promise of settled weather now, for getting in 
the hay, about which the farmers have been fearful; and there 
is something so healthful in the sharing of a joy that is general 
and not merely personal, that this thought about the hay- 
harvest reacts on his state of mind, and makes his resolution 10 
seem an easier matter. A man about town might perhaps con¬ 
sider that these influences were not to be felt out of a child’s 
story-book; but when you are among the fields and hedge¬ 
rows, it is impossible to maintain a consistent superiority to 
simple natural pleasures. 15 

Arthur had passed the village of Hayslope, and was ap¬ 
proaching the Broxton side of the hill, when, at a turning in the 
road, he saw a figure about a hundred yards before him which 
i-t was impossible to mistake for any one else than Adam 
Bede, even if there had been no grey, tailless shepherd-dog at 20 
his heels. He was striding along at his usual rapid pace; and 
Arthur pushed on his horse to overtake him, for he retained 
too much of his boyish feeling for Adam to miss an opportunity 
of chatting with him. I will not say that his love for that good 
fellow did not owe some of its force to the love of patronage: 25 
our friend Arthur liked to do everything that was handsome, 
and to have his handsome deeds recognised. 

°Adam looked round as he heard the quickening clatter of 
the horse’s heels, and waited for the horseman, lifting his 
paper cap from his head with a bright smile of recognition. 30 
Next to his own brother Seth, Adam would have done more 
for Arthur Donnithorne than for any other young man in the 
world. There was hardly anything he would not rather have 
lost than the two-feet ruler which he always carried in his 
pocket; it was Arthur’s present, bought with his pocket- 35 
money when he was a fair-haired lad of eleven, and when he 
had profited so well by Adam’s lessons in carpentering and 


176 


ADAM BEDE 


turning, as to embarrass every female in the house with gifts of 
superfluous thread-reels and round boxes. Adam had quite 
a pride in the little squire in those early days, and the feeling 
had only become slightly modified as the fair-haired lad had 
5 grown into the whiskered young man. Adam, I confess, was 
very susceptible to the influence of rank, and quite ready to 
give an extra amount of respect to every one who had more 
advantages than himself, not being a philosopher, or a pro- 
letaire with democratic ideas, but simply a stout-limbed clever 
10 carpenter with a large fund of reverence in his nature, which 
inclined him to admit all established claims unless he saw very 
clear grounds for questioning them. He had no theories about 
setting the world to rights, but he saw there was a great deal 
of damage done by building with ill-seasoned timber—by 
is ignorant men in fine clothes making plans for outhouses and 
workshops and the like, without knowing the bearings of 
things—by slovenly joiners’ work, and by hasty contracts that 
could never be fulfilled without ruining somebody; and he 
resolved, for his part, to set his face against such doings. On 
20 these points he would have maintained his opinion against the 
largest landed proprietor in Loamshire or Stonyshire either; 
but he felt that beyond these it would be better for him to defer 
to people who were more knowing than himself. He saw as 
plainly as possible how ill the woods on the estate were 
25 managed, the shameful state of the farm-buildings; and if old 
Squire Donnithorne had asked him the effect of this mis¬ 
management, he would have spoken his opinion without 
flinching, but the impulse to a respectful demeanour towards 
a “gentleman” would have been strong within him all the 
30 while. The word “gentleman” had a spell for Adam, and, as 
he often said, he “couldn’t abide a fellow who thought he 
made himself fine by being coxy to’s betters.” I must re¬ 
mind you again that Adam had the blood of the peasant in his 
veins, and that since he was in his prime half a century ago, 
35 you must expect some of his characteristics to be obsolete. 

Towards the young squire this instinctive reverence of 
Adam’s was assisted by boyish memories and personal regard; 


LINKS 


177 


so you may imagine that he thought far more of Arthur’s good 
qualities, and attached far more value to very slight actions 
of his, than if they had been the qualities and actions of a 
common workman like himself. He felt sure it would be a’ 
fine day for everybody about Hayslope when the young 5 
squire came into the estate—such a generous open-hearted 
disposition as he had, and an “uncommon” notion about im¬ 
provements and repairs, considering he was only just coming 
of age. Thus there was both respect and affection in the smile 
with which he raised his paper cap as Arthur Donnithorne 10 
rode up. 

“You’re going to Broxton, I suppose?” said Arthur, putting 
his horse on at a slow pace while Adam walked by his side. 
“Are you going to the Rectory?” 

“No, sir, I’m going to see about Bradwell’s barn. They’re 15 
afraid of the roof pushing the walls out; and I’m going to see 
what can be done with it before we send the stuff and the 
workmen. ” 

“Why, Burge trusts almost everything to you now, Adam, 
doesn’t he? I should think he will make you his partner soon. 20 
He will, if he’s wise.” 

“Nay, sir, I don’t see as he’d be much the better off for 
that. °A foreman, if he’s got a conscience, and delights in his 
work, will do his business as well as if he was a partner. I 
wouldn’t give a penny for a man as ’ud drive a nail in slack 25 
because he didn’t get extra pay for it. ” 

“I know that, Adam; I know you work for him as well as if 
you were working for yourself. But you would have more 
power than you have now, and could turn the business to 
better account perhaps. The old man must give up his 30 
business some time, and he has no son; I suppose he’ll want a 
son-in-law who can take to it. But he has rather grasping 
fingers of his own, I fancy: I daresay he wants a man who can 
put some money into the business. If I were not as poor as a 
rat, I would gladly invest some money in that way, for the 35 
sake of having you settled on the estate. I’m sure I should 
profit by it in the end. And perhaps I shall be better off in a 


ADAM BEDE 


178 

year or two. I shall have a larger allowance now I’m of age; 
and when I’ve paid off a debt or two, I shall be able to look 
about me.” 

“You’re very good to say so, sir, and I’m not unthankful, 
s But”—Adam continued, in a decided tone—“I shouldn’t like 
to make any offers to Mr. Burge, or t’ have any made for me. 
I see no clear road to a partnership. If he should ever want to 
dispose of the business, that ’ud be a different matter. I should 
be glad of some money at a fair interest then, for I feel sure 
10 I could pay it off in time. ” 

“Very well, Adam,” said Arthur, remembering what Mr. 
Irwine had said about a probable hitch in the love-making 
between Adam and Mary Burge, “we’ll say no more about it 
at present. When is your father to be buried?” 
x 5 “On Sunday, sir; Mr. Irwine’s coming earlier on purpose. 
I shall be glad when it’s over, for I think my mother ’ull per¬ 
haps get easier then. It cuts one sadly to see the grief of old 
people; they’ve no way o’ working it off; and the new spring 
brings no new shoots out on the withered tree. ” 

20 “Ah, you’ve had a good deal of trouble and vexation in your 
life, Adam. I don’t think you’ve ever been hare-brained and 
light-hearted, like other youngsters. You’ve always had some 
care on your mind.” 

°“Why, yes, sir; hut that’s nothing to make a fuss about. 
25 If we’re men, and have men’s feelings, I reckon we must have 
men’s troubles. We can’t be like the birds, as fly from their 
nest as soon as they’ve got their wings, and never know their 
kin when they see ’em, and get a fresh lot every year. I’ve had 
enough to be thankful for: I’ve allays had health and strength 
30 and brains to give me a delight in my work; and I count it 
a great thing as I’ve had Bartle Massey’s night-school to go to. 
He’s helped me to knowledge I could never ha’ got by myself. ” 

“What a rare fellow you are, Adam!” said Arthur, after a 
pause, in which he had looked musingly at the big fellow walk- 
35 ing by his side. “I could hit out better than most men at 
Oxford, and yet I believe you would knock me into next week 
if I were to have a battle with you.” 


LINKS 


179 

‘"God forbid I should ever do that, sir,” said Adam, looking 
round at Arthur, and smiling. “I used to fight for fun; but 
I’ve never done that since I was the cause o’ poor Gil Tranter 
being laid up for a fortnight. I’ll never fight any man again, 
only when he behaves like a scoundrel. If you get hold of as 
chap that’s got no shame nor conscience to stop him, you must 
try what you can do by bunging his eyes up. ” 

Arthur did not laugh, for he was preoccupied with some 
thoughts that made him say presently— 

“I should think now, Adam, you never have any struggles 10 
within yourself. I fancy you would master a wish that you 
had made up your mind it was not quite right to indulge, as 
easily as you would knock down a drunken fellow who was 
quarrelsome with you. I mean, you are never °shilly-shally, 
first making up your mind that you won’t do a thing, and then 15 
doing it after all?” 

“Well,” said Adam, slowly, after a moment’s hesitation— 
“no. I don’t remember ever being see-saw in that way, when 
I’d made my mind up, as you say, that a thing was wrong. It 
takes the taste out o’ my mouth for things, when I know 120 
should have a heavy conscience after ’em. I’ve seen pretty 
clear, ever since I could cast up a sum, as you can never do 
what’s wrong without breeding sin and trouble more than you 
can ever see. It’s like a bit o’ bad workmanship—you never 
see th’ end o’ the mischief it’ll do. And it’s a poor look-out 25 
to come into the world to make your fellow-creatures worse off 
instead o’ better. But there’s a difference between the things 
folks call wrong. I’m not for making a sin of every little fool’s 
trick, or bit o’ nonsense anybody may be let into, like some o’ 
them dissenters. And a man may have two minds whether 30 
it isn’t worth while to get a bruise or two for the sake of a bit 
o’ fun. But it isn’t my way to be see-saw about anything: 

I think my fault lies th’ other way. When I’ve said a thing, 
if it’s only to myself, it’s hard for me to go back. ” 

“Yes, that’s just what I expected of you,” said Arthur. 35 
“You’ve got an iron will, as well as an iron arm. But how¬ 
ever strong a man’s resolution may be, it costs him something 




i8o 


ADAM BEDE 


to carry it out, now and then. We may determine not to 
gather any cherries, and keep our hands sturdily in our 
pockets, but we can’t prevent our mouths from watering. ” 
“That’s true, sir; but there’s nothing like settling with our- 
5 selves as there’s a deal we must do without i’ this life. It’s 
no use looking on life as if it was Treddles’on fair, where folks 
only go to see shows and get fairings. If we do, we shall find 
it different. But where’s the use o’ me talking to you, sir? 
You know better than I do.” 

io °“ I’m not so sure of that, Adam. You’ve had four or five 
years of experience more than I’ve had, and I think your life 
has been a better school to you than college has been to me. ” 
“Why, sir, you seem to think o’ college something like what 
Bartle Massey does. He says college mostly makes people 
15 like bladders—just good for nothing but t’ hold the stuff as is 
poured into ’em. But he’s got a tongue like a sharp blade, 
Bartle has: it never touches anything but it cuts. Here’s the 
turning, sir. I must bid you good-morning, as you’re going 
to the Rectory. ” 

20 “Good-bye, Adam, good-bye.” 

Arthur gave his horse to the groom at the Rectory gate, and 
walked along the gravel towards the door which opened on the 
garden. He knew that the Rector always breakfasted in his 
study, and the study lay on the left hand of this door, oppo- 
25 site the dining-room. It was a small low room, belonging to 
the old part of the house—dark with the sombre covers of the 
books that lined the walls; yet it looked very cheery this 
morning as Arthur reached the open window. For the morn¬ 
ing sun fell aslant on the great glass globe with gold fish in it, 
30 which stood on a scagliola pillar in front of the ready-spread 
bachelor breakfast-table, and by the side of this breakfast- 
table was a group which would have made any room enticing. 
In the crimson damask easy-chair sat Mr. Irwine, with that 
radiant freshness which he always had when he came from his 
35 morning toilet; his finely-formed plump white hand was 
playing along Juno’s brown curly back; and close to Juno’s 
tail, which was wagging with calm matronly pleasure, the two 


LINKS 


181 


brown pups were rolling over each other in an ecstatic duet of 
worrying noises. On a cushion a little removed sat Pug, with 
the air of a maiden lady, who looked on these familiarities as 
animal weaknesses, which she made as little show as possible 
of observing. On the table, at Mr. Irwine’s elbow, lay the 5 
first volume of the °Foulis iEschylus, which Arthur knew well 
by sight; and the silver coffee-pot, which Carroll was bringing 
in, sent forth a fragrant steam which completed the delights 
of a bachelor breakfast. 

“Hallo, Arthur, that’s a good fellow! You’re just in time,” 10 
said Mr. Irwine, as Arthur paused and stepped in over the low 
window-sill. “Carroll, we shall want more coffee and eggs, 
and haven’t you got some cold fowl for us to eat with that 
ham? Why, this is like old days, Arthur; you haven’t been to 
breakfast with me these five years.” 15 

“It was a tempting morning for a ride before breakfast,” 
said Arthur; “and I used to like breakfasting with you so 
°when I was reading with you. My grandfather is always a few 
degrees colder at breakfast than at any other hour in the day. 

I think his morning bath doesn’t agree with him.” 20 

Arthur was anxious not to imply that he came with any 
special purpose. He had no sooner found himself in Mr. 
Irwine’s presence than the confidence which he had thought 
quite easy before, suddenly appeared the most difficult 
thing in the world to him, and at the very moment of shak- 25 
ing hands he saw his purpose in quite a new light. How 
could he make Irwine understand his position unless he told 
him those little scenes in the wood; and how could he tell them 
without looking like a fool? And then his weakness in coming 
back from Gawaine’s, and doing the very opposite of what he 30 
intended! Irwine would think him a shilly-shally fellow ever 
after. However, it must come out in an unpremediated way; 
the conversation might lead up to it. 

“I like breakfast-time better than any other moment in the 
day,” said Mr. Irwine. “No dust has settled on one’s mind 35' 
then, and it presents a clear mirror to the rays of things. I 
always have a favourite book by me at breakfast, and I enjoy 


ADAM BEDE 


182 

the bits I pick up then so much, that regularly every morning 
it seems to me as if I should certainly become studious again. 
But presently Dent brings up a poor fellow who has killed a 
hare, and when I’ve got through my justicing, as Carroll 
- calls it, I’m inclined for a ride round the glebe , and on my way 
back I meet with the master of the workhouse, who has got a 
long story of a mutinous pauper to tell me; and so the day 
goes on, and I’m always the same lazy fellow before evening 
sets in. Besides, one wants the stimulus of sympathy, and 1 
10 have never had that since poor D’Oyley left Treddleston. If 
you had stuck to your books well, you rascal, 1 s b? ul ^ have 
had a pleasanter prospect^before me. But scholarship doesn t 
run in your family blood.” .. . . 

“No indeed. It’s well if I can remember a little lnappii- 
15 cable Latin to adorn my maiden speech in Parliament six or 
seven years hence. °‘Cras ingens iterabimus aequor, and a 
few shreds of that sort, will perhaps stick to me, and 1 shall 
arrange my opinions so as to introduce them. But I don t 
think a knowledge of the classics is a pressing want to a 
20 country gentlemen; as far as I can see, he’d much better have 
a knowledge of manures. I’ve been reading your friend Arthur 
Young’s books lately, and there’s nothing I should like better 
than to carry out some of his ideas in putting the farmers on a 
better management of their land; and, as he says, making 
25 what was a wild country, all of the same dark hue, bright and 
variegated with corn and cattle. My grandfather will never 
let me have any power while he lives; but there’s nothing I 
should like better than to undertake the Stonyshire side of the 
estate —it’s in a dismal condition—and set improvements on 
30 foot, and gallop about from one place to another and overlook 
them. I should like to know all the labourers, and see them 
touching their hats to me with a look of goodwill. ” 

“Bravo, Arthur! a man who has no feeling for the classics 
couldn’t make a better apology for coming into the world than 
35 by increasing the quantity of food to maintain scholars and 
rectors who appreciate scholars. And whenever you enter on 
your career of model landlord may I be there to see. You’ll 


LINKS 


183 

want a portly rector to complete the picture, and make his, 
tithe of all the respect and honour you get by your hard work. 
Only don’t set your heart too strongly on the goodwill you are 
to get in consequence. °Fm not sure that men are the fondest 
of those who try to be useful to them. You know Gawaine 5 
has got the curses of the whole neighbourhood upon him about 
that enclosure. You must make it quite clear to your mind 
which you are most bent upon, old boy—popularity or useful¬ 
ness^—else you may happen to miss both. ” 

“Oh! Gawaine is harsh in his manners; he doesn’t make 10 
himself personally agreeable to his tenants. °I don’t believe 
there’s anything you can’t prevail on people to do with kind¬ 
ness. For my part, I couldn’t live in a neighbourhood where I 
was not respected and beloved; and it’s very pleasant to go 
among the tenants here, they seem all so well inclined to me. 15 
I suppose it seems only the other day to them since I was a 
little lad, riding on a pony about as big as a sheep. And if fair 
allowances were made to them, and their buildings attended 
to, one could persuade them to farm on a better plan, stupid 
as they are.” 20 

“Then mind you fall in love in the right place, and don’t 
get a wife who will drain your purse and make you niggardly 
in spite of yourself. My mother and I have a little discussion 
about you sometimes: she says, ‘I’ll never risk a single proph¬ 
ecy on Arthur until I see the woman he falls in love with.’ 25 
She thinks your lady-love will rule you °as the moon rules the 
tides. But I feel bound to stand up for you, as my pupil, you 
know; and I maintain that you’re not of that watery quality. 

So mind you don’t disgrace my judgment. ” 

Arthur winced under this speech, for keen old Mrs. Irwine’s 30 
opinion about him had the disagreeable effect of a sinister 
omen. This, to be sure, was only another reason for persever¬ 
ing in his intention, and getting an additional security against 
himself. Nevertheless, at this point in the conversation, he 
was conscious of increased disinclination to tell his story about 35 
Hetty. He was of an impressible nature, and lived a great 
deal in other people’s opinions and feelings concerning him- 


ADAM BEDE 


184 

.self; and the mere fact that he was in the presence of an inti¬ 
mate friend, who had not the slightest notion that he had had 
any such serious internal struggle as he came to confide, rather 
shook his own belief in the seriousness of the struggle. It was 
s not, after all, a thing to make a fuss about; and what could 
Irwine do for him that he could not do for himself? He would 
go to Eagledale in spite of Meg’s lameness—go on Rattler, 
and let Pym follow as well as he could on the old hack. That 
was his thought as he sugared his coffee; but the next minute, 
10 as he was lifting the cup to his lips, he remembered how thor¬ 
oughly he had made up his mind last night to tell Irwine. 
No! he would not be vacillating again—he would do what he 
had meant to do, this time. So it would be well not to let the 
personal tone of the conversation altogether drop. If they 
15 went to quite indifferent topics, his difficulty would be height¬ 
ened. It had required no noticeable pause for this rush and 
rebound of feeling, before he answered— 

‘‘But I think it is hardly an argument against a man’s 
general strength of character, that he should be apt to be 
20 mastered by love. A fine constitution doesn’t insure one 
against small-pox or any other of those inevitable diseases. 
A man may be very firm in other matters, and yet be under a 
sort of witchery from a woman. ” 

“Yes; but there’s this difference between love and small- 
25 pox, or bewitchment either—that if you detect the disease at 
an early stage, and try change of air, there is every chance of 
complete escape without any further development of symp¬ 
toms. And there are certain alterative doses which a man may 
administer to himself by keeping unpleasant consequences 
30 before his mind: this gives you a sort of smoked glass through 
which you may look at the resplendent fair one and discern 
her true outline; though I’m afraid, by the by, the smoked 
glass is apt to be missing just at the moment it is most 
wanted. I daresay, now, even a man fortified with a knowl- 
35 edge of the classics might be lured into an imprudent mar¬ 
riage, in spite of °the warning given him by the chorus in the 
Prometheus.” 


LINKS 


185 

The smile that flitted across Arthur’s face was a faint one, 
and instead of following Mr. Irwine’s playful lead, he said, 
quite seriously—“Yes, that’s the worst of it. It’s a des¬ 
perately vexatious thing, that after all one’s reflections and 
quiet determinations, we should be ruled by moods that one 5 
can’t calculate on beforehand. I don’t think a man ought to 
be blamed so much if he is betrayed into doing things in that 
way, in spite of his resolutions. ” 

“Ah, but the moods lie in his nature, my boy, just as much 
as his reflections did, and more. A man can never do anything 10 
at variance with his own nature. He carries within him the 
germ of his most exceptional action; and if we wise people 
make eminent fools of ourselves on any particular occasion, 
we must endure the legitimate conclusion that we carry a few 
grains of folly to our ounce of wisdom. ” 15 

“Well, but one may be betrayed into doing things by a 
combination of circumstances, which one might never have 
done otherwise. ” 

“Why, yes, a man can’t very well steal a bank-note unless 
the bank-note lies within convenient reach; but he won’t 20 
make us think him an honest man because he begins to howl 
at the bank-note for falling in his way.” 

“But surely you don’t think a man who struggles against 
a temptation into which he falls at last, as bad as the man who 
never struggles at all ? ” _ 25 

“No, certainly; I pity him in proportion to his struggles, 
for they foreshadow the inward suffering which is the worst 
form of °Nemesis. Consequences are unpitying. Our deeds 
carry their terrible consequences, quite apart from any fluc¬ 
tuations that went before—consequences that are hardly ever 30 
confined to ourselves. And it is best to fix our minds on that 
certainty, instead of considering what may be the elements of 
excuse for us. But I never knew you so inclined for moral dis¬ 
cussion, Arthur? Is it some danger of your own that you are 
considering in this philosophical, general way?” 35 

In asking this question, Mr. Irwine pushed his plate away, 
threw himself back in his chair, and looked straight at Arthur. 


i86 


ADAM BEDE 


He really suspected that Arthur wanted to tell him something, 
and thought of smoothing the way for him by this direct 
question. But he was mistaken. Brought suddenly and in¬ 
voluntarily to the brink of confession, Arthur shrank back, 
s and felt less disposed towards it than ever. The conversation 
had taken a more serious tone than he had intended—it 
would quite mislead Irwine—he would imagine there was a 
deep passion for Hetty, while there was no such thing. He was 
conscious of colouring, and was annoyed at his boyishness, 
io “Oh no, no danger,” he said as indifferently as he could. 
“I don’t know that I am more liable to irresolution than other 
people; only there are little incidents now and then that set 
one speculating on what might happen in the future.” 

Was there a motive at work under this strange reluctance 
15 of Arthur’s which had a sort of backstairs influence, not ad¬ 
mitted to himself? °Our mental business is carried on much 
in the same way as the business of the State: a great deal of 
hard work is done by agents who are not acknowledged. °In 
a piece of machinery, too, I believe there is often a small 
20 unnoticeable wheel which has a great deal to do with the 
motion of the large obvious ones. Possibly there was some 
such unrecognised agent secretly busy in Arthur’s mind at 
this moment—possibly it was the fear lest he might hereafter 
find the fact of having made a confession to the Rector a 
25 serious annoyance, in case he should not be able quite to carry 
out his good resolutions? I dare not assert that it was not so. 
The human soul is a very complex thing. 

The idea of Hetty had just crossed Mr. Irwine’s mind as 
he looked inquiringly at Arthur, but his disclaiming indif- 
30 ferent answer confirmed the thought which had quickly fol¬ 
lowed—that there could be nothing serious in that direction. 
There was no probability that Arthur ever saw her except at 
church, and at her own home under the eye of Mrs. Poyser; 
and the hint he had given Arthur about her the other day had 
35 no more serious meaning than to prevent him from noticing 
her so as to rouse the little chit’s vanity, and in this way 
perturb the rustic drama of her life. Arthur would soon join 


LINKS 


187 

his regiment, and be far away: no, there could be no danger in 
that quarter, even if Arthur’s character had not been a strong 
security against it. His honest, patronising pride in the good¬ 
will and respect of everybody about him was a safeguard even 
against foolish romance, still more against a lower kind of 5 
folly. If there had been anything special on Arthur’s mind in 
the previous conversation, it was clear he was not inclined to 
enter into details, and Mr. Irwine was too delicate to imply 
even a friendly curiosity. He perceived a change of subject 
would be welcome, and said— 10 

“ By the way, Arthur, at your colonel’s birthday fete there 
were some transparencies that made a great effect in honour 
of Britannia, and Pitt, and the Loamshire Militia, and, above 
all, the ‘generous youth,’ the hero of the day. Don’t you 
think you should get up something of the same sort to as- 15 
tonish our weak minds ? ” 

The opportunity was gone. While Arthur was hesistating, 
the rope to which he might have clung had drifted away—* 
he must trust now to his own swimming. 

In ten minutes from that time, Mr. Irwine was called for on 20 
business, and Arthur, bidding him good-bye, mounted his 
horse again with a sense of dissatisfaction, which he tried to 
quell by determining to set off for Eagledale without an hour’s 
delay. 


CHAPTER XVII 

IN WHICH THE STORY PAUSES A LITTLE 

“This Rector of Broxton is little better than a pagan!” 
I hear one of my readers exclaim. “How much more edifying 
it would have been if you had made him give Arthur some 
truly spiritual advice! You might have put into his mouth the 
5 most beautiful things—quite as good as reading a sermon.” 

Certainly I could, If I held it the highest vocation of the 
novelist to represent things as they never have been and never 
will be. Then, of course, I might refashion life and character 
entirely after my own liking; I might select the most unex- 
to ceptionable type of clergyman and put my own admirable 
opinions into his mouth on all occasions. °But it happens, on 
the contrary, that my strongest effort is to avoid any such 
arbitrary picture, and to give a faithful account of men and 
things as they have mirrored themselves in my mind. The 
15 mirror is doubtless defective; the outlines will sometimes be 
disturbed, the reflection faint or confused; but I feel as much 
bound to tell you as precisely as I can what that reflection is, as 
if I were in the witness-box narrating my experience on oath. 

Sixty years ago—it is a long time, so no wonder things have 
20 changed—all clergymen were not zealous; indeed there is 
reason to believe that the number of zealous clergymen was 
small, and it is probable that if one among the small minority 
had owned the livings of Broxton and Hayslope in the year 
1799 , you would have liked him no better than you like Mr. 
25 Irwine. Ten to one, you would have thought him a tasteless* 
indiscreet, methodistical man. It is so very rarely that facts 
hit that nice medium required by our own enlightened opinions 
and refined taste! Perhaps you will say, “Do improve the 
tacts a little, then; make them more accordant with those 

188 


IN WHICH THE STORY PAUSES 


189 

correct views which it is our privilege to possess. The world is 
not just what we like; do touch it up with a tasteful pencil, 
and make believe it is not quite such a mixed entangled affair. 
Let all people who hold unexceptionable opinions act unex- 
ceptionably. Let your most faulty characters always be on 5 
the wrong side, and your virtuous ones on the right. Then we 
shall see at a glance whom we are to condemn, and whom we 
are to approve. Then we shall be able to admire, without the 
slightest disturbance of our prepossessions: we shall hate and 
despise with that true ruminant relish which belongs to un- 10 
doubting confidence.” 

But, my good friend, what will you do then with your fellow 
parishioner who opposes your husband in the vestry?—with 
your newly-appointed vicar, whose style of preaching you 
find painfully below that of his regretted predecessor?—with the 15 
honest servant who worries your soul with her one failing?— 
with your neighbour, Mrs. Green, who was really kind to you 
in your last illness, but has said several ill-natured things 
about you since your convalescence?—nay, with your excel¬ 
lent husband himself, who has other irritating habits besides 20 
that of not wiping his shoes? These fellow-mortals, every one, 
must be accepted as they are: you can neither straighten their 
noses, nor brighten their wit, nor rectify their dispositions; 
and it is these people—amongst whom your life is passed— 
that it is needful you should tolerate, pity, and love: it is these 25 
more or less ugly, stupid, inconsistent people, whose move¬ 
ments of goodness you should be able to admire—for whom 
you should cherish all possible hopes, all possible patience. 
And I would not, even if I had the choice, be the clever 
novelist who could create a world so much better than this, in 30 
which we get up in the morning to do our daily work, that you 
would be likely to turn a harder, colder eye on the dusty 
streets and the common green fields—on the real breathing 
men and women, who can be chilled by your indifference or 
injured by your prejudice; who can be cheered and helped 35 
onv/ard by your fellow-feeling, your forbearance, your out¬ 
spoken, brave justice. 



190 


ADAM BEDE 


So I am content to tell my simple story, without trying to 
make things seem better than they were; dreading nothing, 
indeed, but falsity, which, in spite of one’s best efforts, there 
is reason to dread. Falsehood is so easy, truth so difficult, 
s The pencil is conscious of a delightful facility in drawing a 
griffin—the longer the claws, and the larger the wings, the 
better; but that marvellous facility which we mistook for 
genius is apt to forsake us when we want to draw a real unex¬ 
aggerated lion. Examine your words well, and you will find 
io that even when you have no motive to be false, it is a very 
hard thing to say the exact truth, even about your own im¬ 
mediate feelings—much harder than to say something fine 
about them which is not the exact truth. 

It is for this rare, precious quality of truthfulness that I 
*5 delight in many °Dutch paintings, which lofty-minded people 
despise. I find a source of delicious sympathy in these faith¬ 
ful pictures of a monotonous homely existence, which has been 
the fate of so many more among my fellow-mortals than a life 
of pomp or of absolute indigence, of tragic suffering or of 
20 world-stirring actions. I turn, without shrinking, from cloud- 
borne angels, from prophets, sibyls, and heroic warriors, to an 
old woman bending over her flower-pot, or eating her solitary 
dinner, while the noonday light, softened perhaps by a screen 
of leaves, falls on her mob-cap, and just touches the rim of her 
25 spinning-wheel, and her stone jug, and all those cheap com¬ 
mon things which are the precious necessaries of life to her;— 
or I turn to that village wedding, kept between four brown 
walls, where an awkward bridegroom opens the dance with a 
high-shouldered, broad-faced bride, while elderly and middle- 
.30 aged friends look on, with very irregular noses and lips, and 
probably with quart-pots in their hands, but with an expression 
of unmistakable contentment and goodwill. “ Foh!” says my 
idealistic friend, “ what vulgar details! What good is there in 
taking all these pains to give an exact likeness of old women and 
35 clowns? What a low phase of life!—what clumsy, ugly people!” 

But bless us, °things may be lovable that are not altogether 
handsome, I hope? I am not at all sure that the majority 


IN WHICH THE STORY PAUSES 


191 

of the human race have not been ugly, and even among 
those “lords of their kind,” the British, squat figures, ill- 
shapen nostrils, and dingy complexions are not startling ex¬ 
ceptions. Yet there is a great deal of family love amongst us. 

I have a friend or two whose class of features is such that the 5 
°Apollo curl on the summit of their brows would be decidedly 
trying; yet to my certain knowledge tender hearts have beaten 
for them, and their miniatures—flattering, but still not lovely 
—are kissed in secret by motherly lips. I have seen many an 
excellent matron, who could never in her best days have been 10 
handsome, and yet she had a packet of yellow love-letters in 
a private drawer, and sweet children showered kisses on her 
sallow cheeks. And I believe there have been plenty of young 
heroes, of middle stature and feeble beards, who have felt 
quite sure they could never love anything more insignificant 15 
than a °Diana, and yet have found themselves in middle life 
happily settled with a wife who waddles. Yes! thank God, 
°human feeling is like the mighty rivers that bless the earth: 
it does not wait for beauty—it flows with resistless force and 
brings beauty with it. 20 

All honour and reverence to the divine beauty of form! 
Let us cultivate it to the utmost in men, women, and chil¬ 
dren—in our gardens and in our houses. But let us love that 
other beauty too, which lies in no secret of proportion, but 
in the secret of deep human sympathy. Paint us an angel, 25 
if you can, with a floating violet robe, and a face paled by the 
celestial light; paint us yet oftener a °Madonna, turning her 
mild face upward and opening her arms to welcome the divine 
glory; but do not impose on us any aesthetic rules which shall 
banish from the region of Art those old women scraping car- 30 
rots with their workwom hands, those heavy clowns taking 
holiday in a dingy pot-house, those rounded backs and stupid 
weather-beaten faces that have bent over the spade and done 
the rough work of the world—those homes with their tin pans, 
their brown pitchers, their rough curs, and their clusters of 35 
onions. In this world there are so many of these common coarse 
people, who have no picturesque sentimental wretchedness! 


192 


ADAM BEDE 


It is so needful we should remember their existence, else 
we may happen to leave them quite out of our religion 
and philosophy, and frame lofty theories which only fit a 
world of extremes. Therefore let Art always remind us of 
5 them; therefore let us always have men ready to give the 
loving pains of a life to the faithful representing of common¬ 
place things—men who see beauty in these commonplace 
things, and delight in showing how kindly the light of heaven 
falls on them. There are few prophets in the world; few sub- 
xo limely beautiful women; few heroes. I can’t afford to give all 
my love and reverence to such rarities: I want a great deal of 
those feelings for my everyday fellow-men, especially for the 
few in the foreground of the great multitude, whose faces I 
know, whose hands I touch, for whom I have to make way 
15 with kindly courtesy. Neither are picturesque lazzaroni or 
romantic criminals half so frequent as your common labourer, 
who gets his own bread, and eats it vulgarly but creditably with 
his own pocket-knife. It is more needful that I should have a 
fibre of sympathy connecting me with that vulgar citizen who 
20 weighs out my sugar in a vilely-assorted cravat and waist¬ 
coat, than with the handsomest rascal in red scarf and green 
feathers;—more needful that my heart should swell with 
loving admiration at some trait of gentle goodness in the faulty 
people who sit at the same hearth with me, or in the clergyman 
25 of my own parish, who is perhaps rather too corpulent, and in 
other respects is not an °Oberlin or a °Tillotson, than at the 
deeds of heroes whom I shall never know except by hearsay, 
or at the sublimest abstract of all clerical graces that was ever 
conceived by an able novelist. 

30 °And so I come back to Mr. Irwine, with whom I desire you 
to be in perfect charity, far as he may be from satisfying your 
demands on the clerical character. Perhaps you think he was 
not—as he ought to have been—a living demonstration of the 
benefits attached to a national church? But I am not sure of 
35 that; at least I know that the people in Broxton and Hayslope 
would have been very sorry to part with their clergyman, and 
that most faces brightened at his approach; and until it can be 


IN WHICH THE STORY PAUSES 


193 


proved that hatred is a better thing for the soul than love, I 
must believe that Mr. Irwine’s influence in his parish was a 
wholesome one than that of the zealous Mr. Ryde, who came 
there twenty years afterwards, when Mr. Irwine had been 
gathered to his fathers. It is true, Mr. Ryde insisted strongly 5 
on the doctrines of the Reformation, visited his flock a great 
deal in their own homes, and was severe in rebuking the aber¬ 
rations of the flesh—put a stop, indeed, to the Christmas 
rounds of the church singers, as promoting drunkenness, and 
too light a handling of sacred things. But I gathered from 10 
Adam Bede, to whom I talked of these matters in his old age, 
that few clergymen could be less successful in winning the 
hearts of their parishioners than Mr. Ryde. They learned a 
great many notions about doctrine from him, so that almost 
every church-goer under fifty began to distinguish as well 15 
between the genuine gospel and what did not come precisely 
up to that standard, as if he had been born and bred a °Dis- 
senter; and for some time after his arrival there seemed to be 
quite a religious movement in that quiet rural district. 
°“But,” said Adam, “Fve seen pretty clear, ever since I was 20 
a young un, as religion’s something else besides notions. It 
isn’t notions sets people doing the right thing—it’s feelings. 
It’s the same with the notions in religion as it is with math’- 
matics,—a man may be able to work problems straight off 
in’s head as he sits by the fire and smokes his pipe; but if he 25 
has to make a machine or a building, he must have a will and a 
resolution, and love something else better than his own ease. 
Somehow, the congregation began to fall oflF, and people began 
to speak light o’ Mr. Ryde. I believe he meant right at bot¬ 
tom; but, you see, he was sourish-tempered, and was for beat- 30 
ing down prices with the people as worked for him; and his 
preaching wouldn’t go down well with that sauce. And he 
wanted to be like my lord judge i’ the parish, punishing folks 
for doing wrong; and he scolded ’em from the pulpit as if 
he’d been a °Ranter, and yet he couldn’t abide the Dissen- 35 
ters, and was a deal more set against ’em than Mr. Irwine was. 
And then he didn’t keep within his income, for he seemed to 


194 


ADAM BEDE 


think at first go-off that six hundred a-year was to make him 
as big a man as Mr. Donnithorne: that’s a sore mischief I’ve 
often seen with the poor curates jumping into a bit of a living 
all of a sudden. Mr. Ryde was a deal thought on at a distance, 
s I believe, and he wrote books; but as for math’matics and the 
natur o’ things, he was as ignorant as a woman. He was very 
knowing about doctrines, and used to call ’em the bulwarks 
of the Reformation; but I’ve always mistrusted that sort o’ 
learning as leaves folks foolish and unreasonable about busi- 
ioness. Now Mester Irwine was as different as could be: as 
quick!—he understood what you meant in a minute; and he 
knew all about building, and could see when you’d made a 
good job. And he behaved as much like a gentleman to the 
farmers, and th’ old women and the labourers, as he did to the 
is gentry. You never saw him interfering and scolding and try¬ 
ing to play th’ emperor. Ah! he was a fine man as ever you 
set eyes on; and so kind to’s mother and sisters. That poor 
sickly Miss Anne—he seemed to think more of her than of 
anybody else in the world. There wasn’t a soul in the parish 
20 had a word to say against him; and his servants stayed with 
him till they were so old and pottering, he had to hire other 
folks to do their work. ” 

“Well,” I said, “that was an excellent way of preaching in 
the week-days; but I daresay, if your old friend Mr. Irwine 
25 were to come to life again, and get into the pulpit next Sun¬ 
day, you would be rather ashamed that he didn’t preach 
better after-all your praise of him. ” 

“Nay, nay,” said Adam, broadening his chest and throwing 
himself back in his chair, as if he were ready to meet all 
30inferences, “nobody has ever heard me say Mr. Irwine was 
much of a preacher. He didn’t go into deep speritial ex¬ 
perience; and I know there’s a deal in a man’s inward life as 
you can’t measure by the square, and say, ‘ Do this and that 
’ll follow,’ and, ‘Do that and this ’ll follow.’ There’s things 
35 go on in the soul, and times when feelings come into you °like 
a rushing mighty wind, as the Scripture says, and part your 
life in two a’most, so as you look back on yourself as if you was 


IN WHICH THE STORY PAUSES 


195 


somebody else. Those are things as you can’t bottle up in a 
‘do this’ and ‘do that;’ and I’ll go so far with the strongest 
Methodist ever you’ll find. That shows me there’s deep 
speritial things in religion. You can’t make much out wi’ talk¬ 
ing about it, but you feel it. Mr. Irwine didn’t go into those 5 
things: he preached short moral sermons, and that was all. 
But then he acted pretty much up to what he said; he didn’t 
set up for being so different from other folks one day, and then 
be as like ’em as two peas the next. And he made folks love 
him and respect him, and that was better nor stirring up their 10 
gall wi’ being over-busy. Mrs. Poyser used to say—you know 
she would have her word about everything—she said, Mr. 
Irwine was like a good meal o’ victual, you were the better for 
him without thinking on it, and Mr. Ryde was like a dose o’ 
physic, he gripped you and worreted you, and after all he left 15 
you much the same.” 

“But didn’t Mr. Ryde preach a great deal more about that 
spiritual part of religion that you talk of, Adam? Couldn’t 
you get more out of his sermons than out of Mr. Irwine’s?” 

“Eh, I knowna. He preached a deal about doctrines. But 20 
I’ve seen pretty clear ever since I was a young un, as religion’s 
something else besides doctrines and notions. I look at it as if 
the doctrines was like finding names for your feelings, so as 
you can talk of ’em when you’ve never known ’em, just as a 
man may talk o’ tools when he knows their names, though 25 
he’s never so much as seen ’em, still less handled ’em. I’ve 
heard a deal o’ doctrine i’ my time, for I used to go after the' 
Dissenting preachers along wi’ Seth, when I was a lad o’ 
seventeen, and got puzzling myself a deal about th’ °Armi- 
nians and the Calvinists. The Wesleyans, you know, are 30 
strong Arminians; and Seth, who could never abide anything 
harsh, and was always for hoping the best, held fast by the 
Wesleyans from the very first; but I thought I could pick a 
hole or two in their notions, and I got disputing wi’ one o’ the 
class leaders down at Treddleston, and harassed him so, first 35 
o’ this side and then o’ that, till at last he said, ‘Young man, 
it’s the devil making use o’ your pride and conceit as a weapon 


196 


ADAM BEDE 


to war against the simplicity o’ the truth/ I couldn’t help 
laughing then, but as I was going home, I thought the man 
wasn’t far wrong. I began to see as all this weighing and sift- 
ing what this text means and that text means, and whether 
s folks are saved all by God’s grace, or whether there goes an 
ounce o’ their own will to’t, was no part o’ real religion at all. 
You may talk o’ these things for hours on end, and you’ll only 
be all the more coxy and conceited for’t. So I took to going 
nowhere but to church, and hearing nobody but Mr. Irwine, 
10 for he said nothing but what was good, and what you’d be the 
wiser for remembering. And I found it better for my soul to 
be humble before the mysteries o’ God’s dealings, and not be 
making a clatter about what I could never understand. And 
they’re poor foolish questions after all; for what have we got 
15 either inside or outside of us but what comes from God? If 
we’ve got a resolution to do right, He gave it us, I reckon, 
first or last; but I see plain enough we shall never do it without 
a resolution, and that’s enough for me.” 

Adam, you perceive, was a warm admirer, perhaps a partial 
20 judge, of Mr. Irwine, as, happily, some of us still are of the 
people we have known familiarly. Doubtless it will be de¬ 
spised as a weakness by that lofty order of minds who pant 
after the ideal, and are oppressed by a general sense that 
their emotions are of too exquisite a character to find fit objects 
25 among their everyday fellowmen. I have often been favoured 
with the confidence of these select natures, and find them 
concur in the experience that great men are over-estimated 
and small men are insupportable; that if you would love a 
woman without ever looking back on your love as a folly, she 
30 must die while you are courting her; and if you would main¬ 
tain the slightest belief in human heroism, you must never 
make a pilgrimage to see the hero. I confess I have often 
meanly shrunk from confessing to these accomplished and 
acute gentlemen what my own experience has been. I am 
35 afraid I have often smiled with hypocritical assent, and grati¬ 
fied them with an epigram on the fleeting nature of our illu¬ 
sions, which any one moderately acquainted with French 


IN WHICH THE STORY PAUSES 


197 


literature can command at a moment’s notice. Human con¬ 
verse, I think some wise man has remarked, is not rigidly 
sincere. But I herewith discharge my conscience, and de¬ 
clare, that I have had quite enthusiastic movements of ad¬ 
miration towards old gentlemen who spoke the worst English, 5 
who were occasionally fretful in their temper, and who had 
never moved in a higher sphere of influence than that of 
parish overseer; and that the way in which I have come to the 
conclusion that human nature is lovable—the way I have 
learnt something of its deep pathos, its sublime mysteries—10 
has been by living a great deal among people more or less 
commonplace and vulgar, of whom you would perhaps hear 
nothing very surprising if you were to inquire about them in 
the neighbourhoods where they dwelt. Ten to one most of 
the small shopkeepers in their vicinity saw nothing at all in 15 
them. For I have observed this remarkable coincidence, that 
the select natures who pant after the ideal, and find nothing in 
pantaloons or petticoats great enough to command their 
reverence and love, are curiously in unison with the narrowest 
and prettiest. For example, I have often heard Mr. Gedge, 20 
the landlord of the Royal Oak, who used to turn a bloodshot 
eye on his neighbours in the village of Shepperton, sum up his 
opinion of the people in his own parish—and they were all the 
people he knew—in these emphatic words: “Ay, sir, I’ve said 
it often, and I’ll say it again, they’re a poor lot i’ this parish 25 
—a poor lot, sir, big and little.” I think he had a dim idea 
that if he could migrate to a distant parish, he might find 
neighbours worthy of him; and indeed he did subsequently 
transfer himself to the Saracen’s Head, which was doing a 
thriving business in the back street of a neighbouring market- 30 
town. But, oddly enough, he has found the people up that 
back street of precisely the same stamp as the inhabitants 
of Shepperton—“a poor lot, sir, big and little, and them as 
comes for a go o’ gin are no better than them as comes for a 
pint o’ twopenny—a poor lot.” 


35 


CHAPTER XVIII 


CHURCH 

“ Hetty, Hetty, don’t you know church begins at two, and 
it’s gone half after one a’ready? Have you got nothing better 
to think on this good Sunday, as poor old Thias Bede’s to be 
put into the ground, and him drowned i’ th’ dead o’ the 
5 night, as it’s enough to make one’s back run cold, but you 
must be ’dizening yourself as if there was a wedding istid of a 
funeral?” 

‘‘Well, aunt,” said Hetty, “I can’t be ready so soon as 
everybody else, when I’ve got Totty’s things to put on. And 
io I’d ever such work to make her stand still. ” 

Hetty was coming down-stairs, and Mrs. Poyser, in her 
plain bonnet and shawl, was standing below. If ever a girl 
looked as if she had been made of roses, that girl was Hetty 
in her Sunday hat and frock. For her hat was trimmed with 
15 pink, and her frock had pink spots, sprinkled on a white 
ground. There was nothing but pink and white about her, 
except in her dark hair and eyes and her little buckled shoes. 
Mrs. Poyser was provoked at herself, for she could hardly 
keep from smiling, as any mortal is inclined to do at the sight 
20 of pretty round things. So she turned without speaking, and 
joined the group outside the house door, followed by Hetty, 
whose heart was fluttering so at the thought of some one she 
expected to see at church, that she hardly felt the ground she 
trod on. 

25 And now the little procession set off. Mr. Poyser was in his 
Sunday suit of drab, with a red-and-green waistcoat, and a 
green watch-ribbon having a large cornelian seal attached, 
pendant like a plumb-line from that promontory where his 
watch-pocket was situated; a silk handkerchief of a yellow 

198 


CHURCH 


199 


tone round his neck; and excellent grey ribbed stockings, 
knitted by Mrs. Poyser’s own hand, setting off the propor¬ 
tions of his leg. Mr. Poyser had no reason to be ashamed of 
his leg, and suspected that the growing abuse of top-boots and 
other fashions tending to disguise the nether limbs, had their 5 
origin in a pitiable degeneracy of the human calf. Still less had 
he reason to be ashamed of his round jolly face, which was 
good-humour itself as he said, “Come, Hetty—come, little 
uns!” and giving his arm to his wife, led the way through the 
causeway gate into the yard. 10 

The “little uns” addressed were Marty and Tommy, boys 
of nine and seven, in little °fustian tailed coats and knee- 
breeches, relieved by rosy cheeks and black eyes; looking as 
much like their father as a very small elephant is like a very 
large one. Hetty walked between them, and behind came 15 
patient Molly, whose task it was to carry Totty through the 
yard, and over all the wet places on the road; for Totty, hav¬ 
ing speedily recovered from her threatened fever, had insisted 
on going to church to-day, 'and especially on wearing her red- 
and-black necklace outside her tippet. And there were many 20 
wet places for her to be carried over this afternoon, for there 
had been heavy showers in the morning, though now the clouds 
had rolled off and lay in towering silvery masses on the horizon. 

You might have known it was Sunday if you had only 
waked up in the farmyard. The cocks and hens seemed to 25 
know it, and made only crooning subdued noises; the very 
bull-dog looked less savage, as if he would have been satisfied 
with a smaller bite than usual. The sunshine seamed to call 
all things to rest and not to labour; it was asleep itself on the 
moss-grown cow-shed; on the group of white ducks nestling 30 
together with their bills tucked under their wings; on the old 
black sow stretched languidly on the straw, while her largest 
young one found an excellent spring-bed on his mother’s fat 
ribs; on Alick, the shepherd, in his new smock-frock, taking an 
uneasy siesta, half-sitting half-standing on the granary steps. 35 
Alick was of opinion that church, like other luxuries, was not 
to be indulged in often by a foreman who had the weather and 


200 


ADAM BEDE 


the ewes on his mind. “Church! nay I n gotten summat 
else to think on,” was an answer which he often uttered in a 
tone of bitter significance that silenced further question. I 
feel sure Alick meant no irreverence; indeed, I know that his 
s mind was not of a speculative, negative cast, and he would on 
no account have missed going to church on Christmas Day, 
Easter Sunday, and °“ Whissuntide.” But he had a general 
impression that public worship and religious ceremonies, like 
other non-productive employments, were intended for people 
io who had leisure. „ 

“There’s father a-standing at the yard-gate, said Martin 
Poyser. “I reckon he wants to watch us down the field. It s 
wonderful what sight he has, and him turned seventy-five. 

“Ah, I often think it’s wi’ th’ old folks as it is wi’ the bab- 
15 hies,” said Mrs. Poyser; “they’re satisfied wi’ looking, no 
matter what they’re looking at. It’s God A’mighty’s way o’ 
quietening ’em, I reckon, afore they go to sleep. ’’ 

Old Martin opened the gate as he saw the family procession 
approaching, and held it wide open, leaning on his sticky 
20 pleased to do this bit of work; for, like all old men whose life 
has been spent in labour, he liked to feel that he was still 
useful—that there was a better crop of onions in the garden 
because he was by at the sowing—and that the cows would be 
milked the better if he stayed at home on a Sunday afternoon 
25 to look on. He always went to church on °Sacrament Sun¬ 
days, but not very regularly at other times; on wet Sundays, 
or whenever he had a touch of rheumatism, he used to read the 
three first chapters of Genesis instead. 

“They’ll ha’ putten Thias Bede i’ the ground afore^ye get 
3 o to the churchyard,” he said, as his son came up. “It ’ud ha 
been better luck’ if theyd buried him i’ the forenoon when the 
rain was failin’; there’s no likelihoods of a drop now; an^ the 
moon lies like a boat there, dost see? That’s a sure sign o fair 
weather—there’s a many as is false, but that’s sure. ” 

35 “Ay, ay,” said the son, “I’m in hopes it’ll hold up now.” 

“Mind what the parson says, mind what the parson says, 
my lads,” said Grandfather to the black-eyed youngsters in 


CHURCH 


201 


knee-breeches, conscious of a marble or two in their pockets, 
which they looked forward to handling a little, secretly, dur¬ 
ing the sermon. 

“Dood-by, dandad,” said Totty. “Me doin’ to church. 
Me dot my netlace on. Dive me a peppermint. ” 5 

Grandad, shaking with laughter at this “deep little wench,” 
slowly transferred his stick to his left hand, which held the 
gate open, and slowly thrust his finger into the waistcoat- 
pocket on which Totty had fixed her eyes with a confident 
look of expectation. io 

And when they were all gone, the old man leaned on the 
gate again, watching them across the lane along the Home 
Close, and through the far gate, till they disappeared behind 
a bend in the hedge. For the hedgerows in those days shut 
out one’s view, even on the better-managed farms; and this 15 
afternoon, the dog-roses were tossing out their pink wreaths, 
the nightshade was in its yellow and purple glory, the pale 
honeysuckle grew out of reach, peeping high up out of a holly 
bush, and over all an ash or a sycamore every now and then 
threw its shadow across the path. 20 

There were acquaintances at other gates who had to move 
aside and let them pass: at the gate of the Home Close there 
was half the dairy of cows standing one behind the other, ex¬ 
tremely slow to understand that their large bodies might be in 
the way; at the far gate there was the mare holding her head 25 
over the bars, and beside her the liver-coloured foal with its 
head towards its mother’s flank, apparently still much em- 
barassed by its own straddling existence. The way lay entirely 
through Mr. Poyser’s own fields till they reached the main 
road leading to the village, and he turned a keen eye on the 30 
stock and the crops as they went along, while Mrs. Poyser was 
ready to supply a running commentary on them all. The 
woman who manages a dairy has a large share in making the 
rent, so she may well be allowed to have her opinion on stock 
and their “keep”—an exercise which strengthens her under- 35 
standing so much that she finds herself able to give her hus¬ 
band advice on most other subjects. 


202 


ADAM BEDE 


“There’s that short-horned Sally,” she said, as they en¬ 
tered the Home Close, and she caught sight of the meek beast 
that lay chewing the cud, and looking at her with a sleepy eye. 
“I begin to hate the sight o’ the cow; and I say now what I 
5 said three weeks ago, the sooner we get rid of her the better, 
for there’s that little yallow cow as doesn’t give half the milk, 
and yet I’ve twice as much butter from her.” 

“Why, thee’t not like the women in general,” said Mr. 
Poyser; “they like the short-horns, as give such a lot o’ milk. 
ioThere’s Chowne’s wife wants him to buy no other sort.” 

“What’s it sinnify what Chowne’s wife likes?—a poor soft 
thing, wi’ no more head-piece nor a sparrow. She’d take a big 
cullender to strain her lard wi’, and then wonder as the scrat¬ 
ches run through. I’ve seen enough of her to know as I’ll 
is niver take a servant from her house again—all "Tugger-mug¬ 
ger—and you’d niver know, when you went in, whether it was 
Monday or Friday, the wash draggin’ on to th’ end o’ the 
week; and as for her cheese, I know well enough it rose like a 
loaf in a tin last year. And then she talks o’ the weather bein 
20 i’ fault, as there’s folks ’ud stand on their heads and then say 
the fault was i’ their boots. ” 

Well, Chowne’s been wanting to buy Sally, so we can get 
rid of her if thee lik’st,” said Mr. Poyser, secretly proud of his 
wife’s superior power of putting two and two together; in- 
25 deed, on recent market-days he had more than once boasted 
of her discernment in this very matter of short-horns. 

“Ay, them as choose a soft for a wife may’s well buy up the 
short-horns, for if you get your head stuck in a bog your legs 
may’s well go after it. Eh! talk o’ legs, there’s legs for you,” 
30 Mrs. Poyser continued, as Totty, who had been set down now 
the road was dry, toddled on in front pf her father and mother. 
“There’s shapes! An’ she’s got such a long foot, she’ll be 
her father’s own child. ” 

“Ay, she’ll be welly such a one as Hetty i’ ten years’ time, 
35 on’y she’s got thy coloured eyes. I niver remember a blue eye 
i’ my family; my mother had eyes as black as °sloes, just like 
Hetty’s.” 




CHURCH 


203 


“The child ’ull be none the worse for having summat as 
isn’t like Hetty. An’ I’m none for having her so over pretty. 
Though for the matter o’ that, there’s people wi’ light hair an’ 
blue eyes as pretty as them wi’ black. If Dinah had got a bit 
o’ colour in her cheeks, an’ didn’t stick that Methodist cap 5 
on her head, enough to frighten the cows, folks ’ud think her 
as pretty as Hetty. ” 

“Nay, nay,” said Mr. Poyser, with rather a contemptuous 
emphasis, “ thee dostna know the pints of a woman. The men 
’ud niver run after Dinah as they would after Hetty. ” 10 

“What care I what the men ’ud run after? It’s well seen 
what choice the most of ’em know how to make, by the poor 
draggle-tails o’ wives you see, like bits o’ gauze ribbin, good 
for nothing when the colour’s gone.” 

“Well, well, thee canstna say but what I knowed how to 15 
make a choice when I married thee,” said Mr. Poyser, who 
usually settled little conjugal disputes by a compliment of 
this sort; “and thee wast twice as buxom as Dinah ten years 
ago. ” 

“I niver said as a woman had need to be ugly to make a 20 
good missis of a house. There’s Chowne’s wife ugly enough to 
turn the milk an ’ save the °rennet, but she ’ll niver save nothing 
any other way. But as for Dinah, poor child, she’s niver likely 
to be buxom as long as she’ll make her dinner o’ cake and 
water, for the sake o’ giving to them as want. She provoked 25 
me past bearing sometimes; and, as I told her, she went clean 
again’ the Scriptur’, for that says, °‘Love your neighbour as 
yourself;’ ‘but,’ I said, ‘if you loved your neighbour no better 
nor you do yourself, Dinah, it’s little enough you’d do for 
him. You’d be thinking he might do well enough on a half- 30 
empty stomach,’ Eh, I wonder where she is this blessed 
Sunday!—sitting by that sick woman, I daresay, as she d set 
her heart on going to all of a sudden. ” 

“Ah, it was a pity she should take such °megrims into her 
head, when she might ha’ stayed wi’ us all summer, and eaten 35 
twice as much as she wanted, and it ’ud niver ha been missed. 
She made no odds in th’ house at all, for she sat as still at her 


204 


ADAM BEDE 


sewing as a bird on the nest, and was uncommon nimble at 
running to fetch anything. If Hetty gets married, thee dst 
like to ha’ Dinah wi’ thee constant. ” t 

“It’s no use thinking o’ that, said Mrs. Poyser. You 
s might as well beckon to the flying swallow, as ask Dinah to 
come an’ live here comfortable, like other folks. If anything 
could turn her, I should ha ’ turned her, for I ve talked to her 
for a hour on end, and scolded her too; for she’s my own sisters 
child, and it behoves me to do what I can for her. But eh, 
io poor thing, as soon as she’d said us ‘good-bye,’ an got into the 
cart, an’ looked back at me with her pale face, as is welly like 
her aunt Judith come back from heaven, I begun to be fright¬ 
ened to think o’ the set-downs I’d given her; for it comes over 
you sometimes as if she’d a way o’ knowing the rights o things 
is more nor other folks have. But I’ll niver give m as that s 
’cause she’s a Methodist, no more nor a white calf s white 
’cause it eats out o’ the same bucket wi a black un. 

“Nay,” said Mr. Poyser, with as near an approach to a 
snarl as his good-nature would allow; “I’n no opinion o’ the 
20 Methodists. It’s on’y tradesfolks as turn Methodists; you 
niver knew a farmer bitten wi’ them maggots. There s maybe 
a workman now an’ then, as isn’t over clever at s work, takes 
to preachin’ an’ that, like Seth Bede. But you see Adam, as 
has got one o’ the best head-pieces hereabout, knows better; 
25 he’s a good Churchman, else I’d never encourage him for a 
sweetheart for Hetty.” 

“Why, goodness me,” said Mrs. Poyser, who had looked 
back while her husband was speaking, “look where Molly 
is with them lads! They’re the field’s length behind us. How 
30 could you let ’em do so, Hetty? Anybody might as-well set a 
pictur to watch the children as you. Run back and tell em 
to come on. ” . 

Mr. and Mrs. Poyser were now at the end of the second 
field, so they set Totty on the top of one of the large stones 
35 forming the true Loamshire stile, and awaited the loiterers; 
Totty observing with complacency, “Dey naughty, naughty 
boys—me dood.” 


CHURCH 


205 


The fact was that this Sunday walk through the fields was 
fraught with great excitement to Marty and Tommy, who 
saw a perpetual drama going on in the hedgerows, and could 
no more refrain from stopping and peeping than if they had 
been a couple of spaniels or terriers. Marty was quite sure he 5 
saw a yellowhammer on the boughs of the great ash, and while 
he was peeping, he missed the sight of a white-throated stoat, 
which had run across the path and was described with much 
fervour by the junior Tommy. Then there was a little green¬ 
finch, just fledged, fluttering along the ground, and it seemed 10 
quite possible to catch it, till it managed to flutter under the 
blackberry bush. Hetty could not be got to give any heed to 
these things, so Molly was called on for her ready sympathy, 
and peeped with open mouth wherever she was told, and said 
“ Lawks!” whenever she was expected to wonder. is 

Molly hastened on with some alarm when Hetty had come 
back and called to them that her aunt was angry; but Marty 
ran on first, shouting, “We’ve found the speckled turkey’s 
nest, mother!” with the instinctive confidence that people 
who bring good news are never in fault. 20 

“Ah,” said Mrs. Poyser, really forgetting all discipline in 
this pleasant surprise, “tht’s a good lad; why, where is it?” 

“Down in ever such a hole, under the hedge. I saw it 
first, looking after the greenfinch, and she sat on th’ nest.” 

“You didn’t frighten her, I hope,” said the mother, “else 25 
she’ll forsake it. ” 

“ No, I went away as still as still, and whispered to Molly— 
didn’t I, Molly?” . , ■ 

“Well, well, now come on,” said Mrs. Poyser, “and walk 
before father and mother, and take your little sister by the 30 
hand. We must go straight on now. Good boys don’t look 
after the birds of a Sunday.” 

“But, mother,” said Marty, “you said you’d give half-a- 
crown to find the speckled turkey’s nest. Mayn’t I have the 
half-crown put into my money-box?” 35 

“We’ll see about that, my lad, if you walk along now, like 
a good boy. ” 


206 


ADAM BEDE 


The father and mother exchanged a significant glance of 
amusement at their eldest-born’s acuteness; but on iomm> s 
round face there was a cloud. 

“Mother,” he said, half crying, “Marty s got ever so much 
5 more money in his box nor I’ve got in mine. ^ 

“Munny, me want half-a-toun in my bots, said lotty. 

“Hush, hush, hush,” said Mrs. Poyser, “did ever anybody 
hear such naughty children? Nobody shall ever see their 
money-boxes any more, if they don t make haste and go on to 

IO church, dreadful t h reat had the desired effect, and through 
the two remaining fields the three pair of small legs trotted 
on without any serious interruption, notwithstanding a small 
pond full of tadpoles alias “bullheads,” which the lads looked 

15 at wistfully. , f , 

The damp hay that must be scattered and turned afresh 
to-morrow was not a cheering sight to Mr. Poyser, who during 
hay and corn harvest had often some mental struggles as to 
the benefits of a day of rest; but no temptation would have 
20 induced him to carry on any field-work, however early in the 
morning, on a Sunday; for had not Michael Holdsworth had 
a pair of oxen “sweltered” while he was ploughing on Good 
Friday? That was a demonstration that work on sacred days 
was a wicked thing; and with wickedness of any sort Martin 
25 Poyser was quite clear that he would have nothing to do, 
since money got by such means would never prosper. 

“ It a’most makes your fingers itch to be at the hay now the 
sun shines so,” he observed, as they passed through the “Big 
Meadow.” “But it’s poor foolishness to think o’ saving by 
3 o going against your conscience. There’s that Jim Wakefield, 
as they used to call ‘Gentleman Wakefield,’ used to do the 
same of a Sunday as o’ week-days, and took no heed to right 
or wrong, as if there was nayther God nor devil. An’ what’s 
he come to? Why, I saw him myself last market-day a-carry- 

35 ing a basket wi’oranges in’t. ” ^ 

“Ah, to be sure,” said Mrs. Poyser, emphatically, you 
make but a poor trap to catch luck if you go and bait it wi 


CHURCH 


207 


wickedness. The money as is got so’s like to burn holes i’ 
your pocket. I’d niver wish us to leave our lads a sixpence but 
what was got i’ the. rightful way. And as for the weather, 
there’s One above makes it, and we must put up wi’t: it’s 
nothing of a plague to what the wenches are.” 5 

Norwithstanding the interruption in their walk, the excel¬ 
lent habit which Mrs. Poyser’s clock had of taking time by the 
forelock, had secured their arrival at the village while it was 
still a quarter to two, though almost every one who meant to 
go to church was already within the churchyard gates. Those 10 
who stayed at home were chiefly mothers, like Timothy’s 
Bess, who stood at her own door nursing her baby, and feeling 
as women feel in that position—that nothing else can be 
expected of them. 

It was not entirely to see Thias Bede’s funeral that the 15 
people were standing about the churchyard so long before 
service began; that was their common practice. The women, 
indeed, usually entered the church at once, and the farmers’ 
wives talked in an undertone to each other, over the tall 
pews> about their illnesses and the total failure of doctor’s 20 
stuff", recommending dandelion-tea, and other home-made 
specifics, as far preferable—about the servants, and their 
growing exorbitance as to wages, whereas the quality of their 
services declined from year to year, and there was no girl now¬ 
adays to be trusted any further than you could see her—about 25 
the bad price Mr. Dingall, the Treddleston grocer, was giving 
for butter, and the reasonable doubts that might be held as to 
his solvency, notwithstanding that Mrs. Dingall was a sen¬ 
sible woman, and they were all sorry for her, for she had very 
good kin. Meantime the men lingered outside, and hardly any 30 
of them except the singers, who had a humming and frag¬ 
mentary rehearsal to go through,, entered the church until 
Mr. Irwine was in the desk. They saw no reason for that 
premature entrance,—what could they do in church, if they 
were there before service began ?—and they did not conceive 35, 
that any power in the universe could take it ill of them if they 
stayed out and talked a little about “bus’ness.” 



208 


ADAM BEDE 


Chad Cranage looks like quite a new acquaintance to-day, 
for he has got his clean Sunday face, which always makes his 
little granddaughter cry at him as a stranger. But an ex¬ 
perienced eye would have fixed on him a*t once as the village 
5 blacksmith, after seeing the humble deference with which the 
big saucy fellow took off his hat and stroked his hair to the 
farmers; for Chad was accustomed to say that a working man 

must hold a candle to-a personage understood to be as 

black as he was himself on week-days; by which evil-sounding 
IO rule of conduct he meant what was, after all, rather virtuous 
than otherwise, namely, that men who had horses to be shod 
must be treated with respect. Chad and the rougher sort of 
workmen kept aloof from the grave under the white thorn, 
where the burial was going forward; but Sandy Jim, and sev- 
I5 eral of the farm-labourers, made a group round it, and stood 
with their hats off, as fellow-mourners with the mother and 
sons. Others held a midway position-, sometimes watching the 
group at the grave, sometimes listening to the conversation of 
the farmers, who stood in a knot near the church door, and 
20 were now joined by Martin Poyser, while his family passed 
into the church. On the outside of this knot stood Mr. Casson, 
the landlord of the Donnithorne Arms, in his most striking 
attitude—that is to say, with the forefinger of his right hand 
thrust between the buttons of his waistcoat, his left hand in 
25 his breeches-pocket, and his head very much on one side; 
looking, on the whole, like an actor who has only a mono¬ 
syllabic part intrusted to him, but feels sure that the audience 
discern his fitness for the leading business; curiously in con¬ 
trast with old Jonathan Burge, who held his hands behind 
30 him, and leaned forward coughing asthmatically, with an 
inward scorn of all knowingness that could not be turned into 
cash. The talk was in rather a lower tone than usual to-day, 
hushed a little by the sound of Mr. Irwine’s voice reading the 
final prayers of the burial-service. They had all had their 
35 word of pity for poor Thias, but now they had got upon the 
nearer subject of their own grievances against Satchell, the 
Squire’s bailiff, who played the part of steward so far as it was 



CHURCH 


209 


not performed by old Mr. Donnithorne himself, for that gen¬ 
tleman had the meanness to receive his own rents and make 
bargains about his own timber. This subject of conversation 
was an additional reason for not being loud, since Satchell 
himself might presently be walking up the paved road to the 5 
church door. And soon they became suddenly silent; for Mr. 
Irwine’s voice had ceased, and the group round the white 
thorn was dispersing itself towards the church. 

They all moved aside, and stood with their hats off, while 
Mr. Irwine passed. Adam and Seth were coming next, with 10 
their mother between them; for Joshua Rann officiated as 
head sexton as well as clerk, and was not yet ready to follow 
the rector into the °vestry. But there was a pause before the 
three mourners came on: Lisbeth had turned round to look 
again towards the grave! Ah! there was nothing now but the 15 
brown earth under the white thorn. Yet she cried less to-day 
than she had done any day since her husband’s death: along 
with all her grief there was mixed an unusual sense of her own 
importance in having a “burial,” and in Mr. Irwine’s reading 
a special service for her husband; and besides, she knew the 20 
°funeral psalm was going to be sung for him. She felt this 
counter-excitement to her sorrow still more strongly as she 
walked with her sons towards the church door, and saw the 
friendly sympathetic nods of their fellow-parishioners. 

The mother and sons passed into the church, and one by one 25 
the loiterers followed, though some still lingered without; the 
sight of Mr. Donnithorne’s carriage, which was winding 
slowly up the hill, perhaps helping to make them feel that 
there was no need for haste. 

But presently the sound of the °bassoon and the °key-bugles 30 
burst forth; the evening hymn, which always opened the 
service, had begun, and every one must now enter and take 
his place. 

I cannot say that the interior of Hayslope Church was re¬ 
markable for anything except for the grey age of its oaken 35 
pews—great square pews mostly, ranged on each side of a 
narrow aisle. It was free, indeed, from the modern blemish of 


210 


ADAM BEDE 


galleries. The choir had two narrow pews to themselves in the 
middle of the right-hand row, so that it was a short process for 
Joshua Rann to take his place among them as principal bass, 
and return to his desk after the singing was over. The pulpit 
s and desk, grey and old as the pews, stood on one side of the 
arch leading into the chancel, which also had its grey square 
pews for Mr. Donnithorne’s family and servants. • Yet I 
assure you these grey pews, with the buff-washed walls, gave 
a very pleasing tone to this shabby interior, and agreed ex- 
io tremely well with the ruddy faces and bright waistcoats. And 
there were liberal touches of crimson toward the chancel, for 
the pulpit and Mr. Donnithorne’s own pew had handsome crim¬ 
son cloth cushions; and, to close the vista, there was a crimson 
altar-cloth, embroidered with golden rays by Miss Lydia’s own 
15 hand. 

But even without the crimson cloth, the effect must have 
been warm and cheering when Mr. Irwine was in the desk, 
looking benignly round on that simple congregation—on the 
hardy old men, with bent knees and shoulders, perhaps, but 
20 with vigour left for much hedge-clipping and thatching; on 
the tall stalwart frames and roughly-cut bronzed faces of the 
stone-cutters and carpenters; on the half-dozen well-to-do 
farmers, with their apple-cheeked families; and on the clean 
old women, mostly farm-labourers’ wives, with their bit of 
25 snow-white cap-border under their black bonnets, and with 
their withered arms, bare from the elbow, folded passively 
over their chests. For none of the old people held books—why 
should they? °not one of them could read. But they knew a 
few “good words” by heart, and their withered lips now and 
30 then moved silently, following the service without any very 
clear comprehension indeed, but with a simple faith in its 
efficacy to ward off harm and bring blessing. And now all 
faces were visible, for all were standing up—the little children 
on the seats peeping over the edge of the grey pews, while 
35 good °Bishop Ken’s evening hymn was being sung to one of 
those lively psalm-tunes which died out with the last generation 
of rectors and choral parish-clerks. Melodies die out, like the 


CHURCH 


211 


°pipe of Pan, with the ears that love them and listen for them. 
Adam was not in his usual place among the singers to-day, for 
he sat with his mother and Seth, and he noticed with surprise 
that Bartle Massey was absent too: all the more agreeable for 
Mr. Joshua Rann, who gave out his bass notes with unusual 5 
complacency, and threw an extra ray of severity into the 
glances he sent over his spectacles at the °recusant Will 
Maskery. 

I beseech you to imagine Mr. Irwine looking round on this 
scene, in his ample white surplice, that became him so well, 10 
with his powdered hair thrown back, his rich brown complexion 
and his finely-cut nostril and upper lip; for there was a certain 
virtue in that benignant yet keen countenance, as there is in 
all human faces from which a generous soul beams out. And 
over all streamed the delicious June sunshine through the old is 
windows, with their desultory patches of yellow, red, and blue, 
that threw pleasant touches of colour on the opposite wall. 

I think, as Mr. Irwine looked round to-day, his eyes rested 
an instant longer than usual on the square pew occupied by 
Martin Poyser and his family. And there was another pair of 20 
dark eyes that found it impossible not to wander thither, and 
rest on that round pink-and-white figure. But Hetty was at 
that moment quite careless of any glances—she was absorbed 
in the thought that Arthur Donnithorne would soon be com¬ 
ing into church, for the carriage must surely be at the church 25 
gate by this time. She had never seen him since she parted 
with him in the wood on Thursday evening, and oh! how long 
the time had seemed! Things had gone on just the same as 
ever since that evening; the wonders that had happened then 
had brought no changes after them; they were already like a 30 
dream. When she heard the church door swinging, her heart 
beat so, she dared not look up. She felt that her aunt was 
curtsying; she curtsied herself. That must be old Mr. Donni¬ 
thorne—he always came first, the wrinkled small old man, 
peering round with short-sighted glances at the bowing and 35 
curtsying congregation; then she knew Miss Lydia was pass¬ 
ing, and though Hetty liked so much to look at her fashionable 


212 


ADAM BEDE 


little coal-scuttle bonnet, with the wreath of small roses 
round it, she didn’t mind it to-day. But there were no more 
- curtsies—no, he was not come; she felt sure there was nothing 
else passing the pew door but the housekeeper’s black bonnet, 
* s and the lady’s-maid’s beautiful straw that had once been Miss 
Lydia’s, and then the powdered heads of the butler and foot¬ 
man. No, he was not there; yet she would look now—she 
might be mistaken—for, after all, she had not looked. So she 
lifted up her eyelids and glanced timidly at the cushioned pew 
ioin the chancel:—there was no one but old Mr. Donnithorne 
rubbing his spectacles with his white handkerchief, and Miss 
Lydia opening the large gilt-edged prayer-book. The chill 
disappointment was too hard to bear: she felt herself turning 
pale, her lips trembling; she was ready to cry. Oh, what 
15 should she do? Everybody would know the reason; they would 
know she was crying because Arthur was not there. And Mr. 
Craig, with the wonderful hothouse plant in his button-hole, 
was staring at her, she knew. It was dreadfully long before 
the °General Confession began, so that she could kneel down. 
20 Two great drops would fall then, but no one saw them except 
good-natured Molly, for her aunt and uncle knelt with their 
backs towards her. Molly, unable to imagine any cause for 
tears in church except faintness, of which she had a vague 
traditional knowledge, drew out of her pocket a queer little 
25 flat blue smelling-bottle, and after much labour in pulling 
the cork out, thrust the nar ow neck against Hetty’s nostrils. 
“It donna smell,” she whispered, thinking this was a great 
advantage which old salts had over fresh ones: they did you 
good without biting your nose. Hetty pushed it away peev- 
3 oishly; but this little flash of temper did what the salts could 
not have done—it roused her to wipe away the traces of her 
tears, and try with all her might not to shed any more. Hetty 
had a certain strength in her vain little nature: she would have 
borne anything rather than be laughed at, or pointed at with 
35 any other feeling than admiration; she would have pressed 
her own nails into her tender flesh rather than people should 
know a secret she did not want them to know. 


CHURCH 


213 


What fluctuations there were in her busy thoughts and 
feelings, while Mr. Irwine was pronouncing the solemn “Ab¬ 
solution” in her deaf ears, and through all the tones of petition 
that followed! Anger lay very close to disappointment, and 
soon won the victory over the conjectures her small ingenuity 5 
could devise to account for Arthur’s absence on the supposi¬ 
tion that he really wanted to come, really wanted to see her 
again. And by the time she rose from her knees mechanically, 
because all the rest were rising, the colour had returned to her 
cheeks even with a heightened glow, for she was framing little 10 
indignant speeches to herself, saying she hated Arthur for 
giving her this pain—she would like him to suffer too. Yet 
while this selfish tumult was going on in her soul, her eyes were 
bent down on her prayer-book, and the eyelids with their dark 
fringe looked as lovely as ever. Adam Bede thought so, as he 15 
glanced at her for a moment on rising from his knees. 

But Adam’s thoughts of Hetty did not deafen him to the 
service; they rather blended with all the other deep feelings 
for which the church service was a channel to him this after¬ 
noon, as a certain consciousness of our entire past and our 20 
imagined future blends itself with all our moments of keen 
sensibility. And to Adam the church service was the best 
channel he could have found for his mingled regret, yearning, 
and resignation; its interchange of beseeching cries for help, 
with outbursts of faith and praise—its recurrent responses and 25 
the °familiar rhythm of its collects, seemed to speak for him as 
no other form of worship could have done; as, to those early 
Christians who had worshipped from their childhood upward 
in °catacombs, the torch-light and shadows must have seemed 
nearer the Divine presence than the heathenish daylight of the# 
streets. The secret of our emotions never lies in the bare ob¬ 
ject, but in its subtle relations to our own past; no wonder the 
secret escapes the unsympathising observer, who might as 
well put on his spectacles to discern odours. 

But there was one reason why even a chance comer would 3* 
have found the service in Hayslope Church more impressive 
than in most other village nooks in the kingdom—a reason, of 


ADAM BEDE 


214 

which I am sure you have not the slightest suspicion. It was 
the reading of our friend Joshua Rann. Where that good shoe¬ 
maker got his notion of reading from, remained a mystery 
even to his most intimate acquaintances. I believe, after all, 
s he got it chiefly from Nature, who had poured some of her 
music into his honest conceited soul, as she had been known 
to do into other narrow souls before his. She had given him, 
at least, a fine bass voice and a musical ear; but I cannot 
positively say whether these alone had sufficed to inspire him 
IO with the rich chant in which he delivered the responses. The 
way he rolled from a rich deep forte into a melancholy ca¬ 
dence, subsiding, at the end of the last word, into a sort of faint 
resonance, like the lingering vibrations of a fine violoncello, I 
can compare to nothing for its strong calm melancholy but 
IS the rush and cadence of the wind among the autumn boughs. 
This may seem a strange mode of speaking about the reading 
of a parish-clerk—a man in rusty spectacles, with stubbly 
hair, a large °occiput, and a prominent crown. But that 
is Nature’s way: she will allow a gentleman of splendid 
20 physiognomy and poetic aspirations to sing woefully out 
of tune, and not give him the slightest hint of it; and takes 
care that some narrow-browed fellow, trolling a ballad in 
the corner of a pot-house, shall be as true to his intervals as 
a bird. . 

2S Joshua himself was less proud of his reading than of his 
singing, and it was always with a sense of heightened im¬ 
portance that he passed from the desk to the choir. Still more 
to-day: it was a special occasion; for an old man, familiar to 
all the parish, had died a sad death—not in his bed, a circum- 
30 stance the most painful to the mind of the peasant—and now 
the funeral psalm was to be sung in memory of his sudden de¬ 
parture. Moreover, Bartle Massey was not at church, and 
Joshua’s importance in the choir suffered no eclipse. It was 
a solemn minor strain they sang. The old psalm-tunes have 
35 many a wail among them, and the words— 

“Thou sweep’st us off as with a flood; 

We vanish hence like dreams”— 


CHURCH 


21S 

seemed to have a closer application than usual in the death 
of poor Thias. The mother and sons listened, each with 
peculiar feelings. °Lisbeth had a vague belief that the psalm 
was doing her husband good; it was part of that decent burial 
which she would have thought it a greater wrong to withhold 5 
from him than to have caused him many unhappy days while 
he was living. The more there was said about her husband, 
the more there was done for him, surely the safer he would be. 

It was poor Lisbeth’s blind way of feeling that human love 
and pity are a ground of faith in some other love. Seth, who 10 
was easily touched, shed tears, and tried to recall, as he had 
done continually since his father’s death, all that he had heard 
of the possibility that a single moment of consciousness at the 
last might be a moment of pardon and reconcilement; for was 
it not written in the very psalm they were singing, that the 15 
°Divine dealings were not measured and circumscribed by 
time? Adam had never been unable to join in a psalm before. 
He had known plenty of trouble and vexation since he had 
been a lad; but this was the first sorrow that had hemmed in 
his voice, and strangely enough it was sorrow because the 20 
chief source of his past trouble and vexation was for ever gone 
out of his reach. He had not been able to press his father’s 
hand before their parting, and say, "‘Father, you know it was 
all right between us; I never forgot what I owed you when I 
was a lad; you forgive me if I have been too hot and hasty now 25 
and then!” Adam thought but little to-day of the hard work 
and the earnings he had spent on his father: his thoughts ran 
constantly on what the old man’s feelings had been in moments 
of humiliation, when he had held down his head before the 
rebukes of his son. When our indignation is borne in submis-30 
sive silence, we are apt to feel twinges of doubt afterwards as 
to our own generosity, if not justice; how much more when the 
object of our anger has gone into everlasting silence, and we 
have seen his face for the last time in the meekness of death! 

“Ah! I was always too hard,” Adam said to himself. “It’s 35 
a sore fault in me as I’m so hot and out o’ patience with people 
when they do wrong, and my heart gets shut up against ’em. 


216 


ADAM BEDE 


so as I can’t bring myself to forgive ’em. I see clear enough 
there’s more pride nor love in my soul, for I could sooner 
make a thousand strokes with th’ hammer for my father than 
bring myself to say a kind word to him. And there went 
s plenty o’ pride and temper to the strokes, as the devil will be 
having his finger in what we call our duties as well as our sins. 
Mayhap the best thing I ever did in my life was only doing 
what was easiest for myself. It’s allays been easier for me to 
work nor sit still, but the real tough job for me ’ud be to 
I0 master my own will and temper, and go right against my own 
pride. It seems to me now, if I was to find father at home 
to-night, I should behave different; but there’s no knowing— 
perhaps nothing ’ud be a lesson to us if it didn’t come too 
late. It’s well we should feel as life’s a reckoning we can’t 
x S make twice over; there’s no real making amends in this world, 
any more nor you can mend a wrong subtraction by doing 
your addition right.” 

This was the key-note to which Adam’s thoughts had per¬ 
petually returned since his father’s death, and the solemn wail 
20 of the funeral psalm was only an influence that brought back 
the old thoughts with stronger emphasis. So was the sermon, 
which Mr. Irwine had chosen with reference to Thias’s funeral. 
It spoke briefly and simply of the words, °“In the midst of 
life we are in death”—how the present moment is all we can 
25 call our own for works of mercy, of righteous dealing, and of 
family tenderness. All very old truths—but what we thought 
the oldest truth becomes the most startling to us in the week 
when we have looked on the dead face of one who has made a 
part of our own lives. For when men want to impress us with 
30 the effect of a new and wonderfully vivid light, do they not let 
it fall on the most familiar objects, that we may measure its 
intensity by remembering the former dimness? 

Then came the moment of the final blessing, when the for¬ 
ever sublime words, °“The peace of God, which passeth all 
35 understanding,” seemed to blend with the calm afternoon sun¬ 
shine that fell on the bowed heads of the congregation; and 
then the quiet rising, the mothers tying on the bonnets of the 


CHURCH 


217 


little maidens who had slept through the sermon, the fathers 
collecting the prayer-books, until all streamed out through the 
old archway into the green churchyard, and began their neigh¬ 
bourly talk, their simple civilities, and their invitations to tea; 
for on a Sunday every one was ready to receive a guest—it 5 
was the day when all must be in their best clothes and their 
best humour. 

Mr. and Mrs. Poyser paused a minute at the church gate: 
they were waiting for Adam to come up, not being contented to 
go away without saying a kind word to the widow and her sons. 10 
“Well, Mrs. Bede,” said Mrs. Poyser, as they walked on 
together, “you must keep up your heart; husbands and 
wives must be content when they’ve lived to rear their chil¬ 
dren and see one another’s hair grey.” 

“Ay, ay,” said Mr. Poyser; “they wonna have long to wait 15 
for one another then, anyhow. And ye’ve got two o’ the 
strapping’st sons i’ th’ country; and well you may, for I 
remember poor Thias as fine a broad-shouldered fellow as need 
to be; and as for you, Mrs. Bede, why you’re straighter i’ the 
back nor half the young women now.” 20 

“Eh,” said Lisbeth, “it’s poor luck for the platter to wear 
well when it’s broke i’ two. The sooner I’m laid under the 
thorn the better. I’m no good to nobody now.” 

Adam never took notice of his mother’s little unjust plaints; # 
but Seth said, “Nay, mother, thee mustna say so. Thy sons 25 
’ull never get another mother. ” 

“That’s true, lad, that’s true,” said Mr. Poyser; “and it’s 
wrong on us to give way to grief, Mrs. Bede; for it’s like the 
children cryin’ when the fathers and mothers take things 
from ’em. There’s One above knows better nor us.” 30 

“Ah,” said Mrs. Poyser, “an’ it’s poor work, allays settin’ 
the dead above the livin’. We shall all on us be dead some 
time, I reckon—it ’ud be better if folks ’ud make much on us 
beforehand, istid o’ beginnin’ when we’re gone. It’s but 
little good you’ll do a-watering the last year’s crop.” 35 

“Well, Adam,” said Mr. Poyser, feeling that his wife’s 
words were, as usual rather incisive than soothing, and that 


2 l 8 


ADAM BEDE 


it would be well to change the subject, “you’ll come and see us 
again now, I hope. I hanna had a talk with you this long 
while, and the missis here wants you to see what can be done 
with her best spinning-wheel, for it’s got broke, and it’ll be a 
5nice job to mend it—there’ll want a bit o’ turning. You’ll 
come as soon as you can now, will you?” 

Mr. Poyser paused and looked round while he was speaking, 
as if to see where Hetty was; for the children were running on 
before. Hetty was not without a companion, and she had, 
io besides, more pink and white about her than ever; for she held 
in her hand the wonderful pink-and-white hothouse plant, 
with a very long name—a Scotch name, she supposed, since 
people said Mr. Craig the gardener was Scotch. Adam took 
the opportunity of looking round too; and I am sure you will 
is not require of him that he should feel any vexation in observ¬ 
ing a pouting expression on Hetty’s face as she listened to the 
gardener’s small-talk. Yet in her secret heart she was glad to 
have him by her side, for she would perhaps learn from him 
how it was Arthur had not come to church. Not that she 
20 cared to ask him the question, but she hoped the information 
would be given spontaneously; for Mr. Craig, like a superior 
man, was very fond of giving information. 

Mr. Craig was never aware that his conversation and ad¬ 
vances were received coldly, for to shift one’s point of view 
25 beyond certain limits is impossible to the most liberal and 
expansive mind; we are none of us aware of the impression we 
produce on Brazilian monkeys of feeble understanding—it is 
possible they see hardly anything in us. Moreover, Mr. Craig 
was a man of sober passions, and was already in his tenth 
30 year of hesitation as to the relative advantages of matrimony 
and bachelorhood. It is true that, now and then, when he had 
been a little heated by an extra glass of grog, he had been 
heard to say of Hetty that the “lass was well enough,” and 
that “a man might do worse;” but on convivial occasions men 
35 are apt to express themselves strongly. 

Martin Poyser held Mr. Craig in honour, as a man who 
“knew his business,” and who had great lights concerning 


CHURCH 


219 


soils and °compost; but he was less of a favourite with Mrs. 
Poyser, who had more than once said in confidence to her 
husband, “You’re mighty fond o’ Craig; but for my part, I 
think he’s welly like a cock as thinks the sun’s rose o’ purpose 
to hear him crow.” For the rest, Mr. Craig was an estimable5 
gardener, and was not without reasons for having a high 
opinion of himself. He had also high shoulders and high cheek¬ 
bones, and hung his head forward a little, as he walked along 
with his hands in his breeches-pockets. I think it was his 
pedigree only that had the advantage of being Scotch, and not 10 
his “bringing up;” for except that he had a stronger burr in 
his accent, his speech differed little from that of the Loamshire 
people about him. But a gardener is Scotch, as a French 
teacher is Parisian. 

“Well, Mr. Poyser,” he said, before the good slow farmer 15 
had time to speak, “ye’ll not be carrying your hay to-morrow. 
I’m thinking the °glass sticks at ‘change,’ and ye may rely 
upo’ my word as we’ll ha’ more downfall afore twenty-four 
hours is past. Ye see that darkish-blue cloud there upo’ the 
’rizon—ye know what I mean by the ’rizon, where the land 20 
and sky seems to meet?” 

“Ay, ay, I see the cloud,” said Mr. Poyser, “ ’rizon or no 
’rizon. It’s right o’er Mike Holdsworth’s fallow, and a foul 
fallow it is.” 

“Well, you mark my words, as that cloud ’ull spread o’er25 
the sky pretty nigh as quick as you’d spread a tarpaulin over 
one o’ your hay-ricks. It’s a great thing to ha’ studied the 
look o’ the clouds. Lord bless you! th’ met’^rological alma- 
necks can learn me nothing, but there’s a pretty sight o’ 
things I could let them up to, if they’d just come to me. And 30 
how are you , Mrs. Poyser?—thinking o’ getherin’ the red 
currants soon, I reckon. You’d a deal better gether ’em afore 
they’re o’er -ripe, wi’ such weather as we’ve got to look for¬ 
ward to. How do ye do, Mistress Bede?” Mr. Craig contin¬ 
ued, without a pause, nodding by the way to Adam and Seth. 35 
“I hope y’ enjoyed them spinach and gooseberries as I sent 
Chester with th ’ other day. If ye want vegetables while ye’re 





220 


ADAM BEDE 


in trouble, ye know where to come to. It’s well known I’m 
not giving other folks’ things away; for when I’ve supplied the 
house, the garden’s my own spekilation, and it isna every man 
th’ old Squire could get as ’ud be equil to the undertaking, let 
s alone asking whether he’d be willing. I’ve got to run my 
calkilation fine, I can tell you, to make sure o’ getting back, 
the money as I pay the Squire. I should like to see some o’ 
them fellows as make the almanecks looking as far before their 
noses as I’ve got to do every year as comes. ” 

10 “They look pretty fur, though,” said Mr. Poyser, turning 
his head on one side, and speaking, in rather a subdued re¬ 
verential tone. “Why what could come truer nor that pictur 
o’ the cock wi’ the big spurs, as has got its head knocked 
down wi’ th’ anchor, an’ th’ firin’, an’ the ships behind? Why 
I5 that pictur was made afore Christmas, and yit it’s come as 
true as th’ Bible. Why, th’ cock’s France, an’ th’ anchor’s 
°Nelson—an’ they told us that beforehand. ” 

“p ee —ee-eh!”said Mr. Craig. “A man doesna want to see 
fur to know as th’ English ’ull beat the French. Why, I 
20 know upo’ good authority as it’s a big Frenchman as reaches 
five foot high, an’ they live upo’ spoon-meat mostly. I knew 
a man as his father had a particular knowledge o’ the French. 
I should like to know what them grasshoppers are to do against 
such fine fellows as our young Captain Arthur. Why, it ’ud 
25 astonish a Frenchman only to look at him; his arm’s 
thicker nor a Frenchman’s body, I’ll be bound, for they 
pinch theirsells in wi’ stays;. and it’s easy enough, for 
they’ve got nothing i’ their insides.” 

“Where is the Captain, as he wasna at church to-day?” 
3 o said Adam. “I was talking to him o’ Friday, and he said 
nothing about his going away. ” 

“Oh, he’s only gone to Eagledale for a bit o’ fishing; I 
reckon he’ll be back again afore many days are o’er, for he’s 
to be at all th’ arranging and preparing o’ things for the 
35 cornin’ o’ ageo’the 30tho’July. But he’s fond o’getting away 
for a bit, now and then. Him and th’ old Squire fit one anoth¬ 
er like frost and flowers.” 


CHURCH 


221 


Mr. Craig smiled and winked slowly as he made this last 
observation, but the subject was not developed farther, for 
now they had reached the turning in the road where Adam and 
his companions must say “good-bye.” The gardener, too, 
would have had to turn off in the same direction if he had not 5 
accepted Mr. Poyser’s invitation to tea. Mrs. Poyser duly 
seconded the invitation, for she would have held it a deep dis¬ 
grace not to make her neighbours welcome to her house: 
personal likes and dislikes must not interfere with that sacred 
custom. Moreover, Mr. Craig had always been full of civili- 10 
ties to the family at the Hall Farm, and Mrs. Poyser was 
scrupulous in declaring that she had “nothing to say again’ 
him, on’y it was a pity he couldna be hatched o’er again, an’ 
hatched different.” 

So Adam and Seth, with their mother between them, wound 15 
their way down to the valley and up again to the old house, 
where a saddened memory had taken the place of a long, long 
anxiety—where Adam would never have to ask again as he 
entered, “Where’s father?” 

And the other family party, with Mr. Craig for company, 20 
went back to the pleasant bright house-place at the Hall 
Farm—all with quiet minds, except Hetty, who knew now 
where Arthur was gone, but was only the more puzzled and 
uneasy. For it appeared that his absence was quite volun¬ 
tary; he need not have gone—he would not have gone if he 25 
had wanted to see her. She had a sickening sense that no lot 
could ever be pleasant to her again if her Thursday night’s 
vision was not to be fulfilled; and in this moment of chill, 
bare, wintry disappointment and doubt, she looked towards 
the possibility of being with Arthur again, of meeting his 30 
loving glance, and hearing his soft words, with that eager 
yearning which one may call the “growing pain” of passion. 


CHAPTER XIX 

ADAM ON A WORKING DAY 

Notwithstanding Mr. Craig’s prophecy, the dark-blue 
cloud dispersed itself without having produced the threatened 
consequences. “The weather, as he observed the next 
morning—“the weather, you see, ’s a ticklish thing, an a 
5 fool ’ull hit on’t sometimes when a wise man misses; that s 
why the almanecks get so much credit. It s one o them chan¬ 
cy things as fools thrive on. ” 

This unreasonable behavior of the weather, however, could 
displease no one else in Hayslope besides Mr. Craig. All 
IO hands were to be out in the meadows this morning as soon as 
the dew had risen; the wives and daughters did double work 
in every farm-house, that the maids might give their help m 
tossing the hay; and when Adam was marching along the 
lanes, with his basket of tools over his shoulder, he caught the 
IS sound of jocose talk and ringing laughter from behind the 
hedges. The jocose talk of haymakers is best at a distance; 
like those clumsy bells round the cows necks, it has rather a 
coarse sound when it comes close, and may even grate on 
your ears painfully; but heard from far off, it mingles very 
20 prettily with the other joyous sounds of nature. Mens 
muscles move better when their souls are making merry 
music, though their merriment is of a poor blundering sort, 
not at all like the merriment of birds. 

And perhaps there is no time in a summer’s day more cheer- 
25 ing than when the warmth of the sun is just beginning to 
triumph over the freshness of the morning—when there is just 
a lingering hint of early coolness to keep off languor under the 
delicious influence of warmth. The reason Adam was walking 
along the lanes at this time was because his work for the rest of 

222 


ADAM ON A WORKING DAY 


223 


the day lay at a country house about three miles off, which was 
being put in repair for the son of a neighbouring squire; and he 
had been busy since early morning with the packing of panels, 
doors, and chimney-pieces, in a waggon which was now gone 
on before him, while Jonathan Burge himself had ridden to the 5 
spot on horseback, to await its arrival and direct the workmen. 

This little walk was a rest to Adam, and he was uncon¬ 
sciously under the charm of the moment. It was summer 
morning in his heart, and he saw Hetty in the sunshine: a sun¬ 
shine without glare—with slanting rays that tremble between 10 
the delicate shadows of the leaves. He thought, yesterday, 
when he put out his hand to her as they came out of church, 
that there was a touch of melancholy kindness in her face, 
such as he had not seen before, and he took it as a sign that 
she had some sympathy with his family trouble. Poor fellow! 15 
that touch of melancholy came from quite another source; 
but how was he to know? We look at the one little woman’s 
face we love, as we look at the face of our mother earth, and 
see all sorts of answers to our own yearnings. It was impos¬ 
sible for Adam not to feel that what had happened in the last 20 
week had brought the prospect of marriage nearer to him. 
Hitherto he had felt keenly the danger that some other man 
might step in and get possession of Hetty’s heart and hand, 
while he himself was still in a position that made him shrink 
from asking her to accept him. Even if he had had a strong 25 
hope that she was fond of him—and his hope was far from 
being strong—he had been too heavily burthened with other 
claims to provide a home for himself and Hetty—a home such 
as he could expect her to be content with after the comfort and 
plenty of the Farm. Like all strong natures, Adam had con-30 
fidence in his ability to achieve something in the future; he 
felt sure he should some day, if he lived, be able to maintain a 
family, and make a good broad path for himself; but he had 
too cool a head not to estimate to the full the obstacles that 
were to be overcome. And the time would be so long! And 35 
there was Hetty, like a bright-cheeked apple hanging over the 
orchard wall, within sight of everybody, and everybody must 


ADAM BEDE 


224 

long for her! To be sure, if she loved him very much, she 
would be content to wait for him: but did she love him? His 
hopes had never risen so high that he had dared to ask her. 
He was clear-sighted enough to be aware that her uncle and 
s aunt would have looked kindly on his suit, and indeed without 
this encouragement he would never have persevered in going 
to the Farm; but it was impossible to come to any but fluc¬ 
tuating conclusions about Hetty's feelings. She was like a 
kitten, and had the same distractingly pretty looks, that 
10 meant nothing, for everybody that came near her. 

But now he could not help saying to himself that the 
heaviest part of his burden was removed, and that even before 
the end of another year his circumstances might be brought 
into a shape that would allow him to think of marrying. It 
is would always be a hard struggle with his mother, he knew: 
she would be jealous of any wife he might choose, and she had 
set her mind especially against Hetty—perhaps for no other 
reason than that she suspected Hetty to be the woman he had 
chosen. It would never do, he feared, for his mother to live in 
20 the same house with him when he was married; and yet how 
hard she would think it if he asked her to leave him! Yes, 
there was a great deal of pain to be gone through with his 
mother, but it was a case in which he must make her feel that 
his will was strong—it would be better for her in the end. For 
25 himself, he would have liked that they should all live together 
till Seth was married, and they might have built a bit them¬ 
selves to the old house, and made more room. He did not like 
“to part wi’ th’ lad:” they had hardly ever been separated 
for more than a day since they were born. 

30 But Adam had no sooner caught his imagination leaping 
forward in this way—making arrangements for an uncertain 
future—than he checked himself. “A pretty building I’m 
making, without either bricks or timber. I'm up i’ the garret 
a’ready, and haven’t so much as dug the foundation. ” When- 
35 ever Adam was strongly convinced of any proposition, it took 
the form of a principle in his mind: it was knowledge to be 
acted on, as much as the knowledge that damp will cause rust. 


ADAM ON A WORKING DAY 


225 


Perhaps here lay the secret of the hardness he had accused 
himself of: he had too little fellow-feeling with the weakness 
that errs in spite of foreseen consequences. Without this fel¬ 
low-feeling, how are we to get enough patience and charity 
towards our stumbling, falling companions in the long and 5 
changeful journey? And there is but one way in which a 
strong determined soul can learn it—by getting his heart¬ 
strings bound round the weak and erring, so that he must share 
not only the outward consequence of their error, but their 
inward suffering. That is a long and hard lesson, and Adam 10 
had at present only learned the alphabet of it in his father’s 
sudden death, which, by annihilating in an instant all that had 
stimulated his indignation, had sent a sudden rush of thought 
and memory over what had claimed his pity and tenderness. 

But it was Adam’s strength, not its correlative hardness, 15 
that influenced his meditations this morning. He had long 
made up his mind that it would be wrong as well as foolish for 
him to marry a blooming young girl, so long as he had no 
other prospect than that of growing poverty with a growing 
family. And his savings had been so constantly drawn upon 20 
(besides the °terrible sweep of paying for Seth’s substitute in 
the militia), that he had not enoqgh money beforehand to 
furnish even a small cottage, and keep something in reserve 
against a rainy day. He had good hope that he should be 
‘‘firmer on his legs” by-and-by; but he could not be satisfied 25 
with a vague confidence in his arm and brain; he must have 
definite plans, and set about them at once. The partnership 
with Jonathan Burge was not to be thought of at present— 
°there were things implicitly tacked to it that he could not 
accept; but Adam thought that he and Seth might carry on a 30 
little business for themselves in addition to their journeyman s 
work, by buying a small stock of superior wood and making 
articles of household furniture, for which Adam had no end of 
contrivances. Seth might gain more by working at separate 
jobs under Adam’s direction than by his journeyman’s work, 35 
and Adam, in his over-hours, could do all the ‘"nice” work, 
that required peculiar skill. The money gained in this way. 


226 


ADAM BEDE 


with the good wages he received as foreman, would soon 
enable them to get beforehand with the world, so sparingly 
as they would all live now. No sooner had this little plan 
shaped itself in his mind than he began to be busy with exact 
s calculations about the wood to be bought, and the particular 
article of furniture that should be undertaken first—a kitchen 
cupboard of his own contrivance, with such an ingenious 
arrangement of sliding-doors and bolts, such convenient 
nooks for stowing household provender, and such a sym- 
io metrical result to the eye, that every good housewife would be 
in raptures with it, and fall through all the gradations of 
melancholy longing till her husband promised to buy it for 
her. Adam pictured to himself Mrs. Poyser examining it with 
her keen eye, and trying in vain to find out a deficiency; and, 
15 of course, close to Mrs. Poyser stood Hetty, and Adam was 
again beguiled from calculations and contrivances into dreams 
and hopes. Yes, he would go and see her this evening—it was 
so long since he had been at the Hall Farm. He would have 
liked to go to the night-school, to see why Bartle Massey had 
20 not been at church yesterday, for he feared his old friend was 
ill; but, unless he could manage both visits, this last must be 
put off till to-morrow—the desire to be near Hetty, and to 
speak to her again, was too strong. 

As he made up his mind to this, he was coming very near to 
25 the end of his walk, within the sound of the hammers at work 
on the refitting of the old house. The sound of tools to a clever 
workman who loves his work is like the tentative sounds of the 
orchestra to the violinist who has to bear his part in the over¬ 
ture: the strong fibres begin their accustomed thrill, and what 
30 was a moment before joy, vexation, or ambition, begins its 
change into energy. All passion becomes strength when it has 
an outlet from the narrow limits of our personal lot in the labour 
of our right arm, the cunning of our right hand, or the still, 
creative activity of our thought. Look at Adam through the 
35 rest of the day, as he stands on the scaffolding with the two- 
feet ruler in his hand, whistling low while he considers how a 
difficulty about a floor-joist or a window-frame is to be over¬ 
come; or as he pushes one of the younger workmen aside, and 


ADAM ON A WORKING DAY 


227 


takes his place in upheaving a weight of timber, saying, “Let 
alone, lad! thee’st got too much gristle i’ thy bones yet;” or 
as he fixes his keen black eyes on the motions of a workman on 
the other side of the room, and warns him that his distances 
are not right. Look at this broad-shouldered man with the 5 
bare muscular arms, and the thick firm black hair tossed about 
like trodden meadow-grass whenever he takes off his paper 
cap, and with the strong barytone voice bursting every now 
and then into loud and solemn psalm-tunes, as if seeking an 
outlet for superfluous strength, yet presently checking him- 10 
self, apparently crossed by some thought which jars with the 
singing. Perhaps, if you had not been already in the secret, 
you might not have guessed what sad memories, what warm 
affection, what tender fluttering hopes, had their home in this 
athletic body with the broken finger-nails—in this rough man, 15 
who knew no better lyrics than he could find in the °01d and 
New Version and an occasional hymn; who knew the smallest 
possible amount of °profane history; and for whom the motion 
and shape of the earth, the course of the sun, and the changes 
of the seasons, lay in the region of mystery just made visible 20 
by fragmentary knowledge. It had cost Adam a great deal of 
trouble, and work in over-hours, to know what he knew over 
and above the secrets of his handicraft, and that acquaintance 
with mechanics and figures, and the nature of the materials 
he worked with, which was made easy to him by inborn in- 25 
herited faculty—to get the mastery of his pen, and write a 
plain hand, to spell without any other mistakes than must in 
fairness be attributed to the unreasonable character of ortho¬ 
graphy rather than to any deficiency in the speller, and, more¬ 
over, to learn his musical notes and part-singing. Besides all 30 
this he had read his Bible, including the °apocryphal books, 

°“Poor Richard's Almanac,” °Taylor’s “Holy Living and 
Dying,” °“The Pilgrim's Progress,” with °Bunyan’s Life 
and “Holy War,” a great deal of °Bailey's Dictionary, 

°“ Valentine and Orson,” and part of a “History of Babylon,” 35 
which Bartle Massey had lent him. He might have had many 
more books from Bartle Massey, but he had no time for read¬ 
ing “the commin print,” as Lisbeth called it, so busy as he 


228 


ADAM BEDE 


was with figures in all the leisure moments which he did not 
fill up with extra carpentry. 

Adam, you perceive, was by no means a marvellous man, 
nor, properly speaking, a genius, yet I will not pretend that his 
s was an ordinary character among workmen; and it would not 
be at all a safe conclusion that the next best man you may 
happen to see with a basket of tools over his shoulder and a 
paper cap on his head has the strong conscience and the strong 
sense, the blended susceptibility and self-command, of our 
xo friend Adam. He was not an average man. Yet such men as 
he are reared here and there in every generation of our peasant 
artisans—with an inheritance of affections nurtured by a 
simple family life of common need and common industry, 
and an inheritance of faculties trained in skilful courageous 
i5 labour: they make their way upward, rarely as geniuses, most 
commonly as painstaking honest men, with the skill and 
conscience to do well the tasks that lie before them. Their 
lives have no discernible echo beyond the neighbourhood 
where they dwelt, but you are almost sure to find there some 
20 good piece of road, some building, some application of min¬ 
eral produce, some improvement in farming practice, some 
reform of parish abuses, with which their names are associated 
by one or two generations after them. Their employers were 
the richer for them, the work of their hands has worn well, and 
2s the work of their brains has guided well the hands of other 
men. They went about in their youth in flannel or paper 
caps, in coats black with coal-dust or streaked with lime and 
red paint; in old age their white hairs are seen in a place of 
honour at church and at market, and they tell their well- 
30 dressed sons and daughters, seated round the bright hearth on 
winter evenings, how pleased they were when they first earned 
their twopence a-day. Others there are who die poor, and 
never put off the workman’s coat on week-days: they have 
not had the art of getting rich; but they are men of trust, and 
35 when they die before the work is all out of them, it is as if 
some main screw had got loose in a machine; the master who 
employed them says, “Where shall I find their like?” 


CHAPTER XX 


ADAM VISITS THE HALL FARM 

Adam came back from his work in the empty waggon, that 
was why he had changed his clothes, and was ready to set out 
to the Hall Farm when it still wanted a quarter to seven. 

“What’s thee got thy Sunday cloose on for?” said Lisbeth, 
complainingly, as he came down-stairs. “Thee artna goin’ 5 
to th’ school i’ thy best coat?” 

“No, mother,” said Adam, quietly. “I’m going to the 
Hall Farm, but mayhap I may go to the school after, so thee 
mustna wonder if I’m a bit late. Seth ’ull be at home in half 
an hour—he’s only gone to the village; so thee wutna mind.” 10 

“Eh, an’ what’s thee got they best cloose on for to go to th’ 
Hall Farm? The Poyser folks see’d thee in ’em yesterday, 

I warrand. Wha't dost mean by turnin’ worki’day into Sunday 
a-that’n? It’s poor keepin’ company wi’ folks as donna like 
to see thee i’ thy workin’ jacket.” 15 

“Good-bye, mother, I can’t stay,” said Adam, putting on 
his hat and going out. 

But he had no sooner gone a few paces beyond the door than 
Lisbeth became uneasy at the thought that she had vexed 
him. Of course, the secret of her objection to the best clothes 20 
was her suspicion that they were put on for Hetty’s sake; but 
deeper than all her peevishness lay the need that her son 
should love her. She hurried after him, and laid hold of his 
arm before he had got half-way down to the brook, and said, 
“Nay, my lad, thee wutna go away angered wi’ thy mother, 25 
an’ her got nought to do but to sit by hersen an’ think on 
thee?” 

“Nay, nay, mother,” said Adam, gravely, and standing 
still while he put his arm on her shoulder,' “I’m not angered. 

229 


ADAM BEDE 


230 

But I wish, for thy own sake, thee’dst be more contented to 
let me do what I’ve made up my mind to do. I’ll never be no 
other than a good son to thee as long as we live. But a man 
has other feelings besides what he owes to s father and moth- 
5 er; and thee oughtna to want to rule over me body and soul. 
And thee must make up thy mind, as I’ll not give way to thee 
where I’ve a right to do what I like. So let us have no more 
words about it.” 

“Eh,” said Lisbeth, not willing to show that she felt the 
10 real bearing of Adam’s words, “an’ who likes to seeriiee i’ thy 
best cloose better nor thy mother? An’ when thee’st got thy 
face washed as clean as the smooth white pibble, an’ thy hair 
combed so nice, and thy eyes a-sparklin’—what else is there 
as thy old mother should like to look at half so well ? An’ thee 
15 sha’t put on thy Sunday cloose when thee lik’st for me—I’ll 
ne’er plague thee no moor about’n. ” 

“Well, well; good-bye, mother,” said Adam, kissing her, 
and hurrying away. He saw there was no other means of 
putting an end to the dialogue. Lisbeth stood still on the 
20 spot, shading her eyes and looking after him till he was quite 
out of sight. She felt to the full all the meaning that had lain 
in Adam’s words, and, as she lost sight of him and turned 
back slowly into the house, she said aloud to herself—for it 
was her way to speak her thoughts aloud in the long days 
25 when her husband and sons were at their work—“ Eh, he’ll 
be tellin’ me as he’s goin’ to bring her home one o’ these days; 
an’ she’ll be missis o’er me, and I mun look on, belike, while 
she uses the blue-edged platters, and breaks ’em, mayhap, 
though there’s ne’er been one broke sin’ my old man an’ me 
30 bought ’em at the fair twenty ’ear come next Whissuntide. 
Eh!” she went on, still louder, as she caught up her knitting 
from the table, “but she’ll ne’er knit the lad’s stockins, nor 
foot ’em nayther, while I live; an’ when I’m gone, he’ll be¬ 
think him as nobody ’ull ne’er fit’s leg an’ foot as his old 
35 mother did. She’ll know nothin’ o’ narrowin’ an’ heelin’, I 
warrand, an’ she’ll'make a long toe as he canna get’s boot on. 
That’s what comes o’ marr’in’ young wenches. I war gone 


ADAM VISITS THE HALL FARM 


231 


thirty, an’ th’ feyther too, afore we war married; an’ young 
enough too. She’ll be a poor °dratchell by then she s thirty, 
a-marrin’ a-that’n, afore her teeth’s all come.” 

Adam walked so fast that he was at the yard-gate before 
seven. Martin Poyser and the grandfather were not yet come 5 
in from the meadow: every one was in the meadow, even to 
the black-and-tan terrier—no one kept watch in the yard but 
the bull-dog; and when Adam reached the house-door, which 
stood wide open, he saw there was no one in the bright clean 
house-place. But he guessed where Mrs. Poyser and some one 10 
else would be, quite within hearing; so he knocked on the door 
and said in his strong voice, ‘‘Mrs. Poyser within?” 

“Come in, Mr. Bede, come in,” Mrs. Poyser called out 
from the dairy. She always gave Adam this title when she 
received him in her own house. “You may come into the 15 
dairy if you will, for I canna justly leave the cheese.” 

Adam walked into the dairy, where Mrs. Poyser and Nancy 
were crushing the first evening cheese. 

“Why, you might think you war come to a dead-house,” 
said Mrs. Poyser, as he stood in the open doorway; “they’re 20 
all i’ the meadow; but Martin’s sure to be in afore long, for 
they’re leaving the hay cocked to-night, ready for carrying 
first thing to-morrow. I’ve been forced t’ have Nancy in, 
upo’ ’count as Hetty must gether the red currants to-night; 
the fruit allays ripens so contrairy, just when every hand’s 25 
wanted. An’ there’s no trustin’ the children to gether it, for 
they put more into their own mouths nor into the basket; you 
might as well set the wasps to gether the fruit. ” 

Adam longed to say he would go into the garden till Mr. 
Poyser came in, but he was not quite courageous enough, so he 30 
said, “I could be looking at your spinning-wheel, then, and 
see what wants doing to it. Perhaps it stands in the house, 
where I can find it?” 

“No, I’ve put it away in the right-hand parlour; but let it 
be till I can fetch it and show it you. I’d be glad now, if you’d 35 
go into the garden, and tell Hetty to send Totty in. The child 
’ull run in if she’s told, an’ I know Hetty’s lettin’ her eat too 


ADAM BEDE 


232 

many currans. I’ll be much obliged to you, Mr. Bede, if you 11 
go and send her in; an’ there’s the °York and Lankester roses 
beautiful in the garden now—you’ll like to see ’em. But 
you’d like a drink o °whey first, p’r’aps; I know you’re fond 
s o’ whey, as most folks is when they hanna got to crush it out/’ 
“Thank you, Mrs. Poyser,” said Adam; “a drink o’ whey’s 
allays a treat to me. I’d rather have it than beer any day. ’’ 
“Ay, ay,” said Mrs. Poyser, reaching a small white basin 
that stood on the shelf, and dipping it into the whey-tub, “the 
IO smell o’ bread’s sweet t’ everybody but the baker. The Miss 
Irwines allays say, ‘Oh, Mrs. Poyser, I envy you your dairy; 
and I envy you your chickens; and what a beautiful thing a 
farmhouse is, to be sure!’ An’ I say, ‘Yes; a farmhouse is a 
fine thing for them as look on, an’ don’t know the liftin’, an* 
i 5 the stannin’, an’ the worritin’ o’ th’ inside, as belongs to’t. ’ ” 
“Why, Mrs. Poyser, you wouldn’t like to live anywhere 
else but in a farmhouse, so well as you manage it,” said Adam, 
taking the basin; “and there can be nothing to look at pleas¬ 
anter nor a fine milch cow, standing up to’ts knees in pasture, 
20 and the new milk frothing in the pail, and the fresh butter 
ready for market, and the calves, and the poultry. Here’s 
to your health, and may you allays have strength to look 
after your own dairy, and set a pattern t’ all the farmers’ 
wives in the country. ” 

25 Mrs. Poyser was not to be caught in the weakness of smil¬ 
ing at a compliment, but a quiet complacency overspread her 
face like a stealing sunbeam, and gave a milder glance than 
usual to her blue-grey eyes, as she looked at Adam drinking 
the whey. Ah! I think I taste that whey now—with a flavour 
30 so delicate that one can hardly distinguish it from an odour, 
and with that soft gliding warmth that fills one’s imagination 
with a still, happy dreaminess. And the light music of the 
dropping whey is in my ears, mingling with the twittering of a 
bird outside the wire network window—the window over- 
35 looking the garden, and shaded by tall °Gueldres roses. 

“Have a little more, Mr. Bede?” said Mrs. Poyser, as Adam 
set down the basin. 


ADAM VISITS THE HALL FARM 


233 

“No, thank you; I’ll go into the garden now, and send in the 
little lass.” 

“Ay, do; and tell her to come to her mother in the dairy.” 

Adam walked round by the °rick-yard, at present empty 
of ricks, to the little wooden gate leading into the garden— 5 
once the well-tended kitchen-garden of a manor-house; now, 
but for the handsome brick wall with stone coping that ran 
along one side of it, a true farmhouse garden, with hardy 
perennial flowers, unpruned fruit-trees, and kitchen vegetables 
growing together in careless, half-neglected abundance. In 10 
that leafy, flowery, bushy time, to look for any one in this 
garden was like playing at “hide-and-seek.” There were the 
tall hollyhocks beginning to flower, and dazzle the eye with 
their pink, white, and yellow; there were the syringas and 
Gueldres roses, all large and disorderly for want of trimming; 15 
there were leafy walls of scarlet beans and late peas; there was 
a row of bushy °filberts in one direction, and in another a huge 
apple-tree making a barren circle under its low-spreading 
boughs. But what signified a barren patch or two? The 
garden was so large. There was always a superfluity of broad 20 
beans—it took nine or ten of Adam’s strides to get to the end 
of the uncut grass walk that ran by the side of them; and as 
for other vegetables, there .was so much more room than was 
necessary for them, that in the rotation of crops a large flour¬ 
ishing bed of °groundsel was of yearly occurrence on one spot 25 
or other. The very rose-trees, at which Adam stopped to 
pluck one, looked as if they grew wild; they were all huddled 
together in bushy masses, now flaunting with wide open petals 
almost all of them of the streaked pink-and-white kind, which 
doubtless dated from the °union of the houses of York and 30 
Lancaster. Adam was wise enough to choose a compact °Pro- 
vence rose that peeped out half smothered by its flaunting 
scentless neighbours, and held it in his hand—he thought he 
should be more at ease holding something in his hand—as he 
walked on to the far end of the garden, where he remembered 35 
there was the largest row of currant-trees, not far off from the 
great yew-tree arbour. 


ADAM BEDE 


234 

But he had not gone many steps beyond the roses, when he 
heard the shaking of a bough, and a boy’s voice saying— ^ 

“Now, then, Totty, hold out your pinny—there’s a duck. 

The voice came from the boughs of a tall cherry-tree, where 
5 Adam had no difficulty in discerning a small blue-pinafored 
figure perched in a commodious position where the fruit was 
thickest. Doubtless Totty was below, behind the screen of 
peas. Yes—with her bonnet hanging down her back, and her 
fat face, dreadfully smeared with red juice, turned up towards 
10 the cherry-tree, while she held her little round hole of a mouth 
and her red-stained pinafore to receive the promised down¬ 
fall. I am sorry to say, more than half the cherries that fell 
were hard and yellow instead of juicy and red; but Totty 
spent no time in useless regrets, and she was already sucking 
15 the third juiciest when Adam said, “There now, Totty, 
you’ve got your cherries. Run into the house with em to 
mother—she wants you—she’s in the dairy. Run in this 
minute—there’s a good little girl. ” 

He lifted her up in his strong arms and kissed her as he 
20 spoke, a ceremony which Totty regarded as a tiresome inter¬ 
ruption to cherry-eating; and when he set her down she trotted 
off quite silently towards the house, sucking her cherries as 
she went along. 

“Tommy, my lad, tak care you’re not shot for a little 
25 thieving bird,” said Adam, as he walked on towards the cur¬ 
rant-trees. 

He could see there was a large basket at the end of the row: 
Hetty would not be far off, and Adam already felt as if she 
were looking at him. Yet when he turned the corner she was 
30 standing with her back towards him, and stooping to gather the 
low-hanging fruit. Strange that she had not heard him coming! 
perhaps it was because she was making the leaves rustle. She 
started when she became conscious that some one was near— 
started so violently that she dropped the basin with the cur- 
35 rants in it, and then, when she saw it was Adam, she turned 
from pale to deep red. That blush made his heart beat with a 
new happiness. Hetty had never blushed at seeing him before. 


ADAM VISITS THE HALL FARM 


235 

“I frightened you,” he said, with a delicious sense that it 
didn’t signify what he said, since Hetty seemed to feel as 
much as he did; “let me pick the currants up.” 

That was soon done, for they had only fallen in a tangled 
mass on the grass-plot, and Adam, as he rose and gave her the 5 
basin again, looked straight into her eyes with the subdued 
tenderness that belongs to the first moments of hopeful love. 

Hetty did not turn away her eyes; her blush had subsided, 
and she met his glance with a quiet sadness, which contented 
Adam, because it was so unlike anything he had seen in her 10 
before. 

“There’s not many more currants to get,” she said; “I shall 
soon ha’ done now.” 

“I’ll help you,” said Adam; and he fetched the large basket 
which was nearly full of currants, and set it close to them. 15 

Not a word more was spoken as they gathered the currants. 
Adam’s heart was too full to speak, and he thought Hetty 
knew all that was in it. She was not indifferent to his presence 
after all; she had blushed when she saw him, and then there 
was that touch of sadness about her which must surely mean 20 
love, since it was the opposite of her usual manner, which had 
often impressed him as indifference. And he could glance at 
her continually as she bent over the fruit, while the level 
evening sunbeams stole through the thick apple-tree boughs, 
and rested on her round cheek and neck as if they too were in 25 
love with her. It was to Adam the time that a man can least 
forget in after-life—the time when he believes that the first 
woman he has ever loved betrays by a slight something—a 
word, a tone, a glance, the quivering of a lip or an eyelid— 
that she is at least beginning to love him in return. The sign 30 
is so slight, it is scarcely perceptible to the ear or eye—he 
could describe it to no one—it is a mere feather-touch, yet it 
seems to have changed his whole being, to have merged an 
uneasy yearning into a delicious unconsciousness of every¬ 
thing but the present moment. So much of our early gladness 35 
vanishes utterly from our memory: we can never recall the 
joy with which we laid our heads on our mother’s bosom or 


ADAM BEDE 


236 

rode on our father’s back in childhood; doubtless that joy is 
wrought up into our nature, as the sunlight of long-past morn¬ 
ings is wrought up in the soft mellowness of the apricot; but it 
is gone forever from our imagination, and we can only believe 
5 in the joy of childhood. But the first glad moment in our first 
love is a vision which returns to us to the last, and brings with 
it a thrill of feeling intense and special as the recurrent sensa¬ 
tion of a sweet odour breathed in a far-off hour of happiness. 
It is a memory that gives a more exquisite touch to tenderness, 
10 that feeds the madness of jealousy, and adds the last keenness 
to the agony of despair. 

Hetty bending over the red bunches, the level rays piercing 
the screen of apple-tree boughs, the length of bushy garden 
beyond, its own emotion as he looked at her and believed that 
x S she was thinking of him, and that there was no need for them 
to talk—Adam remembered it all to the last moment of his 
life. 

And Hetty? You know quite well that Adam was mistaken 
about her. Like many other men, he thought the signs of love 
20 for another were signs of love towards himself. When Adam 
was approaching unseen by her, she was absorbed as usual in 
thinking and wondering about Arthur’s possible return: the 
sound of any man’s footstep would have affected her just in 
the same way—she would have felt it might be Arthur before 
25 she had time to see, and the blood that forsook her cheek in 
the agitation of that momentary feeling would have rushed 
back again at the sight of any one else just asmuch as at the sight 
of Adam. He was not wrong in thinking that a change had 
come over Hetty: the anxieties and fears of a first passion, 
30 with which she was trembling, had become stronger than 
vanity, had given her for the first time that sense of helpless 
dependence on another’s feeling which awakens the clinging 
deprecating womanhood even in the shallowest girl that can 
ever experience it, and creates in her a sensibility to kindness 
35 which found her quite hard before. For the first time Hetty 
felt that there was something soothing to her in Adam’s timid 
yet manly tenderness: she wanted to be treated lovingly—oh, 


ADAM VISITS THE HALL FARM 


237 

it was very hard to bear this blank of absence silence, apparent 
indifference, after those moments of glowing love! She was not 
afraid that Adam would tease her with love-making and 
flattering speeches like her other admirers: he had always been 
so reserved to her: she could enjoy without any fear the sense 5 
that this strong brave man loved her and was near her. It 
never entered into her mind that Adam was pitiable too— 
that Adam, too, must suffer one day. 

Hetty, we know, was not the first woman that had behaved 
more gently to the man who loved her in vain, because she had 10 
herself begun to love another. It was a very old story; but 
Adam knew nothing about it, so he drank in the sweet de¬ 
lusion. ' 

“That’ll do,” said Hetty, after a little while. “Aunt wants 
me to leave some on the trees. I’ll take ’em in now.” is 

“It’s very well I came to carry the basket,” said Adam, 
“for it ’ud ha’ been too heavy for your little arms.” 

“No; I could ha’ carried it with both hands.” 

“Oh, I daresay,” said Adam, smiling, “and been as long 
getting into the house as a little ant carrying a caterpillar. 20 
Have you ever seen those tiny fellows carrying things four 
times as big as themselves?” 

“No,” said Hetty, indifferently, not caring to know the 
difficulties of ant-life. 

“Oh, I used to watch ’em often when I was a lad. But now, 25 
you see, I can carry the basket with one arm, as if it was an 
empty nutshell, and give you th’ other arm to lean on. Won’t 
you? Such big arms as mine were made for little arms like 
yours to lean on. ” 

Hetty smiled faintly, and put her arm within his. Adam 30 
looked down at her, but her eyes were turned dreamily to¬ 
wards another corner of the garden. 

“Have you ever been to Eagledale?” she said, as they 
walked slowly along. 

“Yes,” said Adam, pleased to have her ask a question 35 
about himself; “ten years ago, when I was a lad, I went with 
father to see about some work there. It’s a wonderful sight— 


ADAM BEDE 


23 B 


rocks and caves such as you never saw in your life. I never 
had a right notion o’ rocks till I went there.” 

“ How long did it take to get there ? ” 

“Why, it took us the best part o’ two days walking, but 
, it’s nothing of a day’s journey for anybody as has got a first- 
rate nag. The Captain ’ud get there in nine or ten hours, 1 U 
be bound, he’s such a rider. And I shouldn t wonder 11 he s 
back again to-morrow; he’s too active to rest long in that 
lonely place, all by himself, for there’s nothing but a bit of a 
„ 0 inn i’ that part where he’s gone to fish. I wish he d got th 
' estate in his hands; that ’ud be the right thing for him, for it 
’ud give him plenty to do, and he’d do’t well too, for all he s 
so young; he’s got better notions o’ things than many a man 
twice his age. He spoke very handsome to me th other day 
I5 about lending me money to set up i business; and if things 
came round that way, I’d rather be beholding to him nor to 
any man i’ the world.” A . . , 

Poor Adam was led on to speak about Arthur because he 
thought Hetty would be pleased to know that the young 
20 squire was so ready to befriend him; the fact entered into his 
future prospects, which he would like to seem promising in her 
eyes. And it was true that Hetty listened with an interest 
which brought a new light into her eyes and a half smile upon 

sc “How pretty the roses are now!” Adam continued, pausing 
to look at them. “ See! I stole the prettiest, but I didna mean 
to keep it myself. I think these as are all pink, and have got a 
finer sort o’ green leaves, are prettier than the striped uns. 


don’t you?” 

30 He set down the basket, and 


took the rose from his button- 


“I*t smells very sweet,” he said; “those striped uns have no 
smell. Stick it in your frock, and then you can put it in water 
after. It ’ud be a pity to let it fade.” 

35 Hetty took the rose, smiling as she did so at the pleasant 
thought that Arthur could so soon get back if he liked. There 
was a flash of hope and happiness in her mind, and with a 


ADAM VISITS THE HALL FARM 


239 


sudden impulse of gaiety she did what she had very often done 
before—stuck the rose in her hair a little above the left ear. 
The tender admiration in Adam’s face was slightly shadowed 
by reluctant disapproval. Hetty’s love of finery was just the 
thing that would most provoke his mother, and he himself dis- 5 
liked it as much as it was possible for him to dislike anything 
that belonged to her. 

“Ah,” he said, “that’s like the ladies in the pictures at the 
Chase: they’ve mostly got flowers or feathers or gold things i’ 
their hair, but somehow I don’t like to see ’em; they allays 10 
put me i’ mind o’ the painted women outside the shows at 
Treddles’on fair. What can a woman have to set off better 
than her own hair, when it curls so, like yours? If a woman’s 
young and pretty, I think you can see her good looks all the 
better for her being plain dressed. Why, Dinah Morris looks 15 
very nice, for all she wears such a plain cap and gown. It 
seems to me as a woman’s face doesna want flowers; it’s almost 
like a flower itself. I’m sure yours is. ” 

“Oh, very well,” said Hetty, with a little playful pout, 
taking the rose out of her hair. “I’ll put one o’ Dinah’s caps 20 
on when we go in, and you’ll see if I look better in it. She left 
one behind, so I can take the pattern.” 

“Nay, nay, I don’t want you to wear a Methodist cap like 
Dinah’s. I daresay it’s a very ugly cap, and I used to think 
when I saw her here, as it was nonsense for her to dress dif- 25 
ferent t’ other people; but I never rightly noticed her till she 
came to see mother last week, and then I thought the cap 
seemed to fit her face somehow as th’ acorn-cup fits th’ acorn, 
and I shouldn’t like to see her so well without it. But you’ve 
got another sort o’ face; I’d have you just as you are now, 30 
without anything t’ interfere with your own looks. It’s like 
when a man’s singing a good tune, you don’t want t’ hear bells 
tinkling and interfering wi’ the sound.” 

He took her arm and put it within his again, looking down 
on her fondly. He was afraid she would think he had lectured 35 
her; imagining, as we are apt to do, that she had perceived all 
the thoughts he had only half expressed. And the thing he 


ADAM BEDE 


240 

dreaded most was lest any cloud should come over this 
evening’s happiness. For the world he would not have spoken 
of his love to Hetty yet, till this commencing kindness towards 
him should have grown into unmistakable love. In his imagi- 
s nation he saw long years of his future life stretching before him, 
blest with the right to call Hetty his own: he could be content 
with very little at present. So he took up the basket of cur¬ 
rants once more, and they went on towards the house. 

The scene had quite changed in the half-hour that Adam 
10 had been in the garden. The yard was full of life now: Marty 
was letting the screaming geese through the gate, and wicked¬ 
ly provoking the gander by hissing at him; the granary-door 
was groaning on its hinges as Alick shut it, after dealing out the 
corn; the horses were being led out to watering, amidst much 
is barking of all the three dogs, and many “whups” from Tim 
the ploughman, as if the heavy animals who held down their 
meek, intelligent heads, and lifted their shaggy feet so de¬ 
liberately, were likely to rush wildly in every direction but the 
right. Everybody was come back from the meadow; and when 
20 Hetty and Adam entered the house-place, Mr. Poyser was 
seated in the three-cornered chair, and the grandfather in the 
large arm-chair opposite, looking on with pleasant expecta¬ 
tion while the supper was being laid on the oak table. Mrs. 
Poyser had laid the cloth herself—a cloth made of homespun 
25 linen, with a shining checkered pattern on it, and of an agree¬ 
able whitey-brown hue, such as all sensible housewives like 
to see—none of your bleached “shop-rag” that would wear 
into holes in no time but good homespun that would last for 
two generations. The cold veal, the fresh lettuces, and the 
30 stuffed °chine, might well look tempting to hungry men who 
had dined at half-past twelve o’clock. On the large deal table 
against the wall there were bright pewter plates and spoons 
and cans, ready for Alick and his companions; for the master 
and servants ate their supper not far off each other; which was 
35 all the pleasanter, because if a remark about to-morrow morn¬ 
ing’s work occurred to Mr. Poyser, Alick was at hand to hear 
it. 


ADAM VISITS THE HALL FARM 


241 


“Well, Adam, Pm glad to see ye,” said Mr. Poyser. “What! 
ye’ve been helping Hetty to gether the currans, eh? Come, 
sit ye down, sit ye down. Why, it’s pretty near a three-week 
since y’ had your supper with us; and the missis has got one 
of her rare stuffed chines. I’m glad ye’re come.” 5 

“Hetty,” said Mrs. Poyser, as she looked into the basket 
of currants to see if the fruit was fine, “run up-stairs and send 
Molly down. She’s putting Totty to bed, and I want her to 
draw th’ ale, for Nancy’s busy yet i’ the dairy. You can see 
to the child. But whativer did you let her run away from you 10 
along wi’ Tommy for, and stuff herself wi’ fruit as she can’t 
eat a bit o’ good victual?” 

This was said in a lower tone than usual, while her husband 
was talking to Adam; for Mrs. Poyser was strict in adherence 
to her own rules of propriety, and she considered that a young 15 
girl was not to be treated sharply in the presence of a respect¬ 
able man who was courting her. That would not be fair-play: 
every woman was young in her turn, and had her chances of 
matrimony, which it was a point of honour for other women 
not to spoil—just as one market-woman who has sold her 20 
own eggs must not try to balk another of a customer. 

Hetty made haste to run away up-stairs, not easily finding 
an answer to her aunt’s question, and Mrs. Poyser went 
out to see after Marty and Tommy, and bring them in to 
supper. • 25 

Soon they were all seated—the two rosy lads, one on each 
side, by the pale mother, a place being left for Hetty between 
Adam and her uncle. Alick too was come in, and was seated 
in his far corner, eating cold broad beans out of a large dish 
with his pocket-knife, and finding a flavour in them which he 30 
would not have exchanged for the finest pine-apple. 

“What a time that gell is drawing th’ ale, to be sure!” said 
Mrs. Poyser, when she was dispensing her slices of stuffed 
chine. “I think she sets the jug under and forgets to turn the 
tap, as there’s nothing you can’t believe o’ them wenches:35 
they’ll set the empty kettle o’ the fire, and then come an hour 
after to see if the water boils.” 


242 


ADAM BEDE 


“She’s drawin’ for the men too,” said Mr. Poyser. “Thee 
shouldst ha’ told her to bring our jug up first.” 

“Told her?” said Mrs. Poyser: “yes, I might spend all the 
wind i’ my body, an’ take the bellows too, if I was to tell them 
5 gells everything as their own sharpness wonna tell ’em. Mr. 
Bede, will you take some vinegar with your lettuce? Ay, 
you’re i’ the right not. It spoils flavour o’ the chine, to my 
thinking. It’s poor eating where the flavour o’ the meat lies 
i’ the cruets. There’s folks as make bad butter, and trusten 
10 to the salt t’ hide it.” 

°Mrs. Poyser’s attention was here diverted by the appear¬ 
ance of Molly, carrying a large jug, two small mugs, and four 
drinking-cans, all full of ale or small beer—an interesting 
example of the prehensile power possessed by the human hand, 
is Poor Molly’s mouth was rather wider open than usual, as 
she walked along with her eyes fixed on the double cluster of 
vessels in her hands, quite innocent of the expression in her 
- mistress’s eye. 

“Molly, I niver knew your equils—to think o’ your poor 
20 mother as is a widow, an’ I took you wi’ as good as no charac¬ 
ter, an’ the times an’ times I’ve told you” . . . 

Molly had not seen the lightning, and the thunder shook 
her nerves the more for the want of that preparation. With 
a vague alarmed sense that she must somehow comport her- 
25 self differently, she hastened her step a little towards the far 
deal table, where she might set down her cans—caught her 
foot in her apron, which had become untied, and fell with a 
crash and a splash into a pool of beer; whereupon a tittering 
explosion from Marty and Tommy, and a serious “Elio!” from 
30 Mr. Poyser, who saw his draught of ale unpleasantly deferred. 

“There you go!” resumed Mrs. Poyser, in a cutting tone, as 
she rose and went towards the cupboard while Molly began 
dolefully to pick up the fragments of pottery. “It’s what I 
told you ’ud come, over and over again; and there’s your 
35 month’s wage gone, and more, to pay for that jug as I’ve had 
i’ the house this ten year, and nothing ever happened to’t 
before; but the crockery you’ve broke sin’ here in th’ house 


ADAM VISITS THE HALL FARM 


243 


you’ve been ’ud make a parson swear—God forgi’ me for 
saying so; an’ if it had been boiling wort out o’ the copper, it 
’ud ha’ been the same, and you’d ha’ been icalded, and very 
like lamed for life, as there’s no knowing but what you will be 
some day if you go on; for anybody ’ud think you’d got the 5 
°St. Vitus’s Dance, to see the things you’ve throwed down. 
It’s a pity but what the bits was stacked up for you to see, 
though it’s neither seeing nor hearing as ’ull make much odds 
to you —anybody ’ud think you war case-hardened.” 

Poor Molly’s tears were dropping fast by this time, and 10 
in her desperation at the lively movement of the beer-stream 
towards Alick’s legs, she was converting her apron into a mop, 
while Mrs. Poyser, opening the cupboard, turned a blighting 
eye upon yer. 

“Ah,” she went on, “you’ll do no good wi’ crying an’ mak- 15 
ing more wet to wipe up. It’s all your own wilfulness, as I 
tell you, for there’s nobody no call to break anything if they’ll 
only go the right way to work. But wooden folks had need ha’ 
wooden things t’ handle. And here must I take the brown- 
and-white jug, as it’s niver been used three times this year, 20 
and go down i’ the cellar myself, and belike catch my death, 
and be laid up wi’ inflammation” . . . 

Mrs. Poyser had turned round from the cupboard with the 
brown-and-white jug in her hand, when she caught sight of 
something at the other end of the kitchen; perhaps it was be- 25 
cause she was already trembling and nervous that the appari¬ 
tion had so strong an effect on her; perhaps jug-breaking, like 
other crimes, has a contagious influence. However it was, she 
stared and started like a ghost-seer, and the precious brown- 
and-white jug fell to the ground, parting for ever with its spout 30 
and handle. 

“ Did ever anybody see the like?” she said, with a suddenly- 
lowered tone, after a moment’s bewildered glance round the 
room. “The jugs are bewitched, I think. It’s them nasty 
glazed handles—they slip o’er the finger like a snail. ” 35 

“Why, thee’st let thy own whip fly i’ thy face,” said her 
husband, who had now joined in the laugh of the young ones. 


244 


ADAM BEDE 


“It’s all very fine to look on and grin,” rejoined Mrs. 
Poyser; “but there’s times when the crockery seems alive, an’ 
flies out o’ your hand like a bird. It’s like the glass, sometimes, 
’ull crack as it stands. What is to be broke will be broke, for 
5 I never dropped a thing i’ my life for want o holding it, else 
I should never ha’ kept the crockery all these ’ears as I bought 
at my own wedding. And Hetty, are you mad? Whativer 
do you mean by coming down 1 that^way, and making one 
think as there’s a ghost a-walking i’ th’ house?” 

IO A new outbreak of laughter, while Mrs. Poyser was speak¬ 
ing, was caused, less by her sudden conversion to a fatalistic 
view of jug-b eaking, than by the strange appearance of 
Hetty, which had startled her aunt. The little minx had found 
a black gown of her aunt’s, and pinned it close round her neck 
I5 to look like Dinah’s, had made her hair as flat as she could, 
and had tied on one of Dinah’s high-crowned borderless net- 
caps. The thought of Dinah’s pale grave face and mild grey 
eyes, which the sight of the gown and cap brought with it, 
made it a laughable surprise enough to see them replaced by 
20 Hetty’s round rosy cheeks and coquettish dark eyes. The 
boys got off their chairs and jumped round her, clapping their 
hands, and even Alick gave a low ventral laugh as he looked 
up from his beans. Under cover of the noise, Mrs. Poyser went 
into the back kitchen to send Nancy into the cellar with the 
25 great pewter measure, which had some chance of being free 
from bewitchment. 

“Why, Hetty, lass, are ye turned Methodist?” said Mr. 
Poyser, with that comfortable slow enjoyment of a laugh 
which one only sees in stout people. “You must pull your 
3 o face a deal longer before you’ll do for one; mustna she, Adam? 
How come you to put them things on, eh ?” 

“Adam said he liked Dinah’s cap and gown better nor my 
clothes,” said Hetty, sitting down demurely. “He says folks 
look better in ugly clothes.” 

35 “Nay, nay,” said Adam, looking at her admiringly; “ I only 

said they seemed to suit Dinah. But if I’d said you’d look 
pretty in ’em, I should ha’said nothing but what was true.” 


ADAM VISITS THE HALL FARM 


245 


“Why, thee thought’st Hetty war a ghost, didstna?” said 
Mr. Poyser to his wife, who now came back and took her seat 
again. “Thee look’dst as scared as scared.” 

“It little sinnifies how I looked,” said Mrs. Poyser; “looks 
’ull mend no jugs, nor laughing neither, as I see. Mr. Bede, 5 
I’m sorry you’ve to wait so long for your ale, but it’s coming 
in a minute. Make yourself at home wi’ th’ cold potatoes: 

I know you like ’em. Tommy, I’ll send you to bed this 
minute, if you don’t give over laughing. What is there to 
laugh at, I should like to know? I’d sooner cry nor laugh at 10 
the sight o’ that poor thing’s cap; and there’s them as ’ud be 
better if they could make theirselves like her i’ more ways nor 
putting on her cap. It little becomes anybody i’ this house to 
make fun o’ my sister’s child, an’ her just gone away from us, 
as it went to my heart to part wi’ her; an’ I know one thing, as 15 
if trouble was to come, an’ I was to be laid up i’ my bed, an’ 
the children was to die—as there’s no knowing but what they 
will—an’ the murrain was to come among the cattle again, 
an’ everything went to rack an’ ruin—I say we might be glad 
to get sight o’ Dinah’s cap again, wi’ her own face under it, 20 
border or no border. For she’s one o’ them things as looks 
the brightest on a rainy day, and loves you the best when 
you’re most i’ need on’t. ” 

Mrs. Poyser, you perceive, was aware that nothing would 
be so likely to expel the comic as the terrible. Tommy, who 25 
was of a susceptible disposition, and very fond of his mother, 
and who had, besides, eaten so many cherries as to have his 
feelings less under command than usual, was so affected by 
the dreadful picture she had made of the possible future, that 
he began to cry; and the good-natured father, indulgent to all 30 
weaknesses but those of negligent armers, said to Hetty— 

“You’d better take the things off again, my lass; it hurts 
your aunt to see ’em. ” 

Hetty went up-stairs again, and the arrival of the ale made 
an agreeable diversion; for Adam had to give his opinion of 35 
the new tap, which could not be otherwise than compliment¬ 
ary to Mrs. Poyser; and then followed a discussion on the 


ADAM BEDE 


246 

secrets of good brewing, the folly of stinginess in “hopping,” 
and the doubtful economy of a farmer’s making his own malt. 
Mrs. Poyser had so many opportunities of expressing herself 
with weight on these subjects, that by the time supper was 
s ended, the ale-jug refilled, and Mr. Poyser’s pipe alight, she 
was once more in high good-humour, and ready, at Adam’s 
request, to fetch the broken spinning-wheel for his inspection. 

“Ah,” said Adam, looking at it carefully, “here’s a nice bit 
turning wanted. It’s a pretty wheel. I must have it up at the 
10 turning-shop in the village, and do it there, for I’ve no con- 
venence for turning at home. If you’ll send it to Mr. Burge’s 
shop i’ the morning, I’ll get it done for you by Wednesday. 
I’ve been turning it over in my mind,” he continued, looking 
at Mr. Poyser, “ to make a bit more convenence at home for 
is nice jobs o’ cabinet-making. I’ve always done a deal at such 
little things in odd hours, and they’re profitable, for there’s 
more workmanship nor material in ’em. I look for me and 
Seth to get a little business for ourselves i’ that way, for I know 
a man at Rosseter as ’ull take as many things as we should 
20 make, besides what we could get orders for round about.” 

Mr. Poyser entered with interest into a project which seem¬ 
ed a step towards Adam’s becoming a “master-man;” and 
Mrs. Poyser gave her approbation to the scheme of the mov¬ 
able kitchen cupboard, which was to be capable of containing 
25 grocery, pickles, crockery, and house-linen, in the utmost 
compactness, without confusion. Hetty, once more in her own 
dress, with her neckerchief pushed a little backwards on this 
warm evening, was seated picking currants near the window, 
where Adam could see her quite well. And so the time passed 
30 pleasantly till Adam got up to go. He was pressed to come 
again soon, but not to stay longer, for at this busy time sen¬ 
sible people would not run the risk of being sleepy at five 
o’clock in the morning. 

“I shall take a step farther,” said Adam, “and go on to see 
35 Mester Massey, for he wasn’t at church yesterday, and I’ve 
not seen him for a week past. I’ve never hardly known him to 
miss church before. ” 


ADAM VISITS THE HALL FARM 


247 

“Ay,” said Mr. Poyser, “we’ve heared nothing about him, 
for it’s the boys’ hollodays now, so we can give you no ac¬ 
count.” 

“But you’ll niver think o’ going there at this hour o’ the 
night?” said Mrs. Poyser, folding up her knitting. 5 

“Oh, Mester Massey sits up late,” said Adam. “An’ the 
night-school’s not over yet. Some o’ the men don’t come till 
late—they ’ve got so far to walk. And Bartle himself’s never 
in bed till it’s gone eleven. ” 

“I wouldna have him to live wi’ me, then,” said Mrs. 10 
Poyser, “a-dropping candle-grease about, as you’re like to 
tumble down o’ the floor th first thing i’ the morning.” 

“Ay, eleven o’clock’s late—it’s late,” said old Martin. “I 
ne’er sot up so i’ my life, not to say as it warna a marr’in’, or 
a christenin’, or a °wake, or th ’ harvest supper. Eleven o’clock’s 15 
late. ” 

“Why, I sit up till after twelve often,” said Adam, laughing 
“but it isn’t t’ eat and drink extry, it’s to work extry. Good¬ 
night, Mrs. Poyser; good-night, Hetty. ” 

Hetty could only smile and not shake hands, for hers were 20 
dyed and damp with currant-juice; but all the rest gave a 
hearty shake to the large palm that was held out to theip, and 
said, “Come again, come again!” 

“Ay, think o’ that now,” said Mr. Poyser, when Adam was 
out on the causeway. “ Sitting up till past twelve to do extry 25 
work! Ye’ll not find many men o’ six-an’-twenty as cull do to 
put i’ the shafts wi’ him. If you can catch Adam for a hus¬ 
band, Hetty, you’ll ride i’ your own spring-cart some day, I’ll 
be your warrant.” 

Hetty was moving across the kitchen with the currants, so 30 
her uncle did not see the little toss of the head with which she 
answered him. To ride in a spring-cart seemed a very miser¬ 
able lot indeed to her now. 


CHAPTER XXI 

THE NIGHT-SCHOOL AND THE SCHOOL-MASTER 

Bartle Massey’s was one of a few scattered houses on the 
edge of a common, which was divided by the road to Tred- 
dleston. Adam reached it in a quarter of an hour after leaving 
the Hall Farm; and when he had his hand on the door-latch, 
s he could see, through the curtainless window, that there were 
eight or nine heads bending over the desks, lighted by °thin 
dips. 

When he entered, a reading lesson was going forward, and 
Bartle Massey, merely nodded, leaving him to take his place 
i© where he pleased. He had not come for the sake of a lesson 
to-night, and his mind was too full of personal matters, too 
full of the last two hours he had passed in Hetty’s presence, 
for him to amuse himself with a book till school was over; so 
he sat down in a corner, and looked on with an absent mind, 
is It was a sort of scene which Adam had beheld almost weekly 
for years; he knew by heart every arabesque flourish in the 
framed specimen of Bartle Massey’s handwriting which hung 
over the schoolmaster’s head, by way of keeping a lofty ideal 
before the minds of his pupils; he knew the backs of all the 
20 books on the shelf running along the whitewashed wall above 
the pegs for the slates; he knew exactly how many grains were 
gone out of the ear of Indian-corn that hung from one of the 
rafters; he had long ago exhausted the resources of his imagin¬ 
ation in trying to think how the bunch of leathery-sea-weed 
2s had looked and grown in its native element; and from the 
place where he sat, he could make nothing of the old map of 
England that hung against the opposite wall, for age had turn¬ 
ed it of a fine yellow brown, something like that of a well- 
seasoned meerschaum. The drama that was going on was 

248 


NIGHT SCHOOL AND SCHOOL MASTER 


2 49 


almost as familiar as the scene, nevertheless habit had not 
made him indifferent to it, and even in his present self-absorb¬ 
ed mood, Adam felt a momentary stirring of the old fellow- 
feeling, as he looked at the rough men painfully holding pen or 
pencil with their cramped hands, or humbly labouring through 5 
their reading lesson. 

The reading class now seated on the form in front of the 
schoolmaster’s desk, consisted of the three most backward 
pupils. Adam would have known it, only by seeing Bartle 
Massey’s face as he looked over his spectacles which he had 10 
shifted to the ridge of his nose, not requiring them for present 
purposes. The face wore its mildest expression: the grizzled 
bushy eyebrows had taken their more acute angle of compas¬ 
sionate kindness, and the mouth, habitually compressed with 
a pout of the lower lip, was relaxed so as to be ready to speak a 15 
helpful word or syllable in a moment. This gentle expression 
was the more interesting because the schoolmaster’s nose, an 
irregular aquiline twisted a little on one side, had rather a 
formidable character; and his brow, moreover, had that 
peculiar tension which always impresses one as a sign of a keen :o 
impatient temperament: the blue veins stood out like cords 
under the transparent yellow skin, and this intimidating brow 
was softened by no tendency to baldness, for the grey bristly 
hair, cut down to about an inch in length, stood round it in as 
close ranks as ever. 25 

“Nay, Bill, nay,” Bartle was saying in a kind tone, as he 
nodded to Adam, “begin that again, and then perhaps, it’ll 
come to you what d, r, y, spells. It’s the same lesson you read 
last week, you know. ” 

“Bill” was a sturdy fellow, aged four-and-twenty, an ex-30 
cellent stone-sawyer, who could get as good wages as any man 
in the trade of his years; but he found a reading lesson in 
words of one syllable a harder matter to deal with than the 
hardest stone he had ever had to saw. The letters, he com¬ 
plained, were so “uncommon alike, there was no tellin’ ’em35 
one from another,” the sawyer’s business not being concerned 
with minute differences such as exist between a letter with its 


ADAM BEDE 


250 

tail turned up and a letter with its tail turned down. But Bill 
had a firm determination that he would learn to read, founded 
chiefly on two reasons: first, that Tom Hazelow, his cousin, 
could read anything “right off,” whether it was print or 
5 writing, and Tom had sent him a letter from twenty miles off, 
saying how he was prospering in the world, and had got an 
overlooker’s place; secondly, that Sam Phillips, who sawed 
with him, had learned to read when he was turned twenty; and 
what could be done by a little fellow like Sam Phillips, Bill 
10 considered, could be done by himself, seeing that he could 
pound Sam into wet clay if circumstances required it. So 
here he was, pointing his big finger towards three words at 
once, and turning his head on one side that he might keep 
better hold with his eye of the one word which was to be dis- 
i 5 criminated out of the group. The amount of knowledge Bartle 
Massey must possess was something so dim and vast that 
Bill’s imagination recoiled before it: he would hardly have 
ventured to deny that the schoolmaster might have something 
to do in bringing about the regular return of daylight and the 
20 changes in the weather. 

The man seated next to Bill was of a very different type: he 
was a Methodist brickmaker, who, after spending thirty years 
of his life in perfect satisfaction with his ignorance, had lately 
“got religion,” and along with it the desire to read the Bible. 
2s But with him, too, learning was a heavy business, and on his 
way out to-night he had offered as usual a special prayer for 
help, seeing that he had undertaken this hard task with a 
single eye to the nourishment of his soul—that he might have 
a greater abundance of texts and hymns wherewith to. banish 
30 evil memories and the temptations of old habit; or, in brief 
language, the devil. For the brickmaker had been a notorious 
poacher, and was suspected, though there was no good evi¬ 
dence against him, of being the man who had shot a neighbour¬ 
ing gamekeeper in the leg. However that might be, it is cer- 
35 tain that shortly after the accident referred to, which was 
coincident with the arrival of an awakening Methodist preach¬ 
er at Treddleston, a great change had been observed in the 


NIGHT SCHOOL AND SCHOOL MASTER 


251 


brickmaker; and though he was still known in the neighbour¬ 
hood by his old sobriquet of “Brimstone,” there was nothing 
he held in so much horror as any farther transactions with 
that evil-smelling element. He was a broad-chested fellow, 
with a fervid temperament, which helped him better in im- 5 
bibing religious ideas than in the dry process of acquiring the 
mere human knowledge of the alphabet. Indeed, he had been 
already a little shaken in his resolution by a brother Meth¬ 
odist, who assured him that the letter was a mere obstruction 
to the Spirit, and expressed a fear that Brimstone was too 10 
eager for the knowledge that puffeth up. 

The third beginner was a much more promising pupil. He 
was a tall but thin and wiry man, nearly as old as Brimstone, 
with a very pale face, and hands stained a deep blue. He was 
a dyer, who in the course of dipping homespun wool and old 15 
women’s petticoats, had got fired with the ambition to learn a 
great deal more about the strange secrets of colour. He had 
already a high reputation in the district for his dyes, and he 
was bent on discovering sortie method by which he could re¬ 
duce the expense of crimsons and scarlets. The druggist at 20 
Treddleston had given him a notion that he might save him¬ 
self a great deal of labour and expense if he could learn to read, 
and so he had begun to give his spare hours to the night-school, 
resolving that his “little chap” should lose no time in coming 
to Mr. Massey’s day-school as soon as he was old enough. 25 

It was touching to see these three big men, with the marks 
of their hard labour about them, anxiously bending over the 
worn books, and painfully making out, “The grass is green,” 
“The sticks are dry,” “The corn is ripe”—a very hard lesson 
to pass to after columns of single words all alike except in the 30 
first letter. It was almost as if three rough animals were.mak- 
ing humble efforts to learn how they might become human. 
And it touched the tenderest fibre in Bartle Massey’s nature, 
for such full-grown children as these were the only pupils for 
whom he had no severe epithets, and no impatient tones. He 35 
was not gifted with an imperturbable temper, and on music- 
nights it was apparent that patience could never be an easy 


ADAM BEDE 


252 

virtue to him; but this evening, as he glances over his spec¬ 
tacles at Bill Downes, the sawyer, who is turning his head on 
one side with a desperate sense of blankness before the letters 
d, r, y, his eyes shed their mildest and most encouraging light, 
s . After the reading class, two youths, between sixteen and 
nineteen, came up with imaginary bills of parcels, which they 
had been writing out on their slates, and were now required to 
calculate “off-hand”—a test which they stood with such im¬ 
perfect success that Bartle Massey, whose eyes had been glar- 
10 ing at them ominously through his spectacles for some minutes, 
at length burst out in a bitter, high-pitched tone, pausing 
between every sentence to rap the floor with a knobbed stick 
which rested between his legs. 

“Now, you see, you don’t do this thing a bit better than you 
is did a fortnight ago; and I’ll tell you what’s the reason. You 
want to learn accounts; that’s well and good. But you think 
all you need do to learn accounts is to come to me and do sums 
for an hour or so, two or three times a-week; and no sooner do 
you get your caps on and turn out of doors again, than you 
20 sweep the whole thing clean out of your mind. You go whist¬ 
ling about, and take no more care what you’re thinking of than 
if your heads were gutters for any rubbish to swill through 
that happened to be in the way; and if you get a good notion 
in ’em, it’s pretty soon washed out again. You think knowl- 
25 edge is to be got cheap—you’ll come and pay Bartle Massey 
sixpence a-week, and he’ll make you clever at figures without 
your taking any trouble. °But knowledge isn’t to be got with 
paying sixpence, let me tell you: if you’re to know figures, you 
must turn ’em over in your heads, and keep your thoughts 
30 fixed on ’em. There’s nothing you :an’t turn into a sum, for 
there’s nothing but what’s got number in it—even a fool. You 
may say to yourselves, ‘I’m one fool, and Jack’s another; if 
my fool’s head weighed four pound, and Jack’s three pound 
three ounces and three quarters, how many pennyweights 
35 heavier would my head be than Jack’s?’ A man that had got 
his heart in learning figures would make sums for himself, 
and work ’em in his head: when he sat at his shoemaking, he’d 


NIGHT SCHOOL AND SCHOOL MASTER 


253 


count his stitches by fives, and then put a price on his stitches, 
say half a farthing, and then see how much money he could get 
in an hour; and then ask himself how much money he’d get in 
a day at that rate; and then how much ten workmen would get 
working three, or twenty, or a hundred years at that rate— 5 
and all the while his needle would be going just as fast as if he 
left his head empty for the devil to dance in. But the long and 
the short of it is—I’ll have nobody in my night-school that 
doesn’t strive to learn what he comes to learn, as hard as if he 
was striving to get out of a dark hole into broad daylight. I’ll 10 
send no man away because he’s stupid: if Billy Taft, the idiot, 
wanted to learn anything, I’d not refuse to teach him. But 
I’ll not throw away good knowledge on people who think they 
can get it by the sixpenn’orth, and carry it away with ’em 
as they would an ounce of snuff. So never come to me again, if 15 
you can’t show that you’ve been working with your own heads, 
instead of thinking you can pay for mine to work for you. 
That’s the last word I’ve got to say to you.” 

With this final sentence, Bartle Massey gave a sharper rap 
than ever with his knobbed stick, and the discomfited lads 20 
got up to go with a sulky look. The other pupils had happily 
only their writing-books to show, in various stages of progress 
from pot-hooks to round text; and mere pen-strokes, however 
perverse, were less exasperating to Bartle than false arithme- 
• tic. He was a little more severe than usual on Jacob Storey’s 25 
Z’s, of which poor Jacob had written a pageful, all with 
their tops turned the wrong way, with a puzzled sense that 
they were not right “somehow.” But he observed in 
apology, that it was a letter you never wanted hardly, and 
he thought it had only been put there “to finish off th’ alpha-30 
bet, like, though ampusand (&) would ha’ done as well, for 
what he could see.” 

At last the pupils had all taken their hats and said their 
“Good-nights,” and Adam, knowing his old master’s habits, 
rose and said, “Shall I put the candles out, Mr. Massey?” 35 

“Yes, my boy, yes, all but this, which I’ll carry into the 
house; and just lock the outer door, now you’re near it,” said 


254 


ADAM BEDE 


Bartle, getting his stick in the fitting angle to help him in de¬ 
scending from his stool. He was no sooner on the ground than 
it became obvious why the stick was necessary—the left leg 
was much shorter than the right. But the schoolmaster was 
s so active with his lameness, that it was hardly thought of as a 
misfortune; and if you had seen him make his way along 
the schoolroom floor, and up the step into his kitchen, you 
would perhaps have understood why the naughty boys some¬ 
times felt that his pace might be indefinitely quickened, and 
io that he and his stick might overtake them even in their swift¬ 
est run. 

The moment he appeared at the kitchen door with the 
candle in his hand, a faint whimpering began in the chimney- 
corner, and a brown-and-tan-coloured bitch, of that wise-looking 
15 breed with short legs and long body, known to an unmechan¬ 
ical generation as °turnspits, came creeping along the floor, 
wagging her tail, and hesitating at every other step, as if her 
affections were painfully divided between the hamper in the 
chimney-corner and the master, whom she could not leave 
20 without a greeting. 

“Well, Vixen, well then, how are the babbies?” said the 
schoolmaster, making haste towards the chimney-corner, and 
holding the candle over the low hamper, where two extremely 
blind puppies lifted up their heads towards the light, from a 
25 nest of flannel and wool. Vixen could not even see her master ° 
look at them without painful excitement: she got into the 
hamper and got out again the next moment, and behaved with 
true feminine folly, though looking all the while as wise as a 
dwarf with a large old-fashioned head and body on the most 
30 abbreviated legs. 

“Why, you’ve got a family, I see, Mr. Massey?” said 
Adam, smiling, as he came into the kitchen. “How’s that? 

I thought it was against the law here. ” 

“Law? What’s the use o’ law when a man’s once such a 
35 fool as to let a woman into his house?” said Bartle, turning 
away from the hamper with some bitterness. He always called 
Vixen a woman, and seemed to have lost all consciousness that 


NIGHT SCHOOL AND SCHOOL MASTER 


255 


he was using a figure of speech. “If I’d known Vixen was a 
woman. I d never have held the boys from drowning her; but 
when I’d got her into my hand, I was forced to take to her. 
And now you see what she’s brought me to—the sly, hypo¬ 
critical wench”—Bartle spoke these last words in a raspings 
tone of reproach, and looked at Vixen, who poked down her 
head and turned up her eyes towards him with a keen sense of 
opprobrium—“and contrived to be brought to bed on a Sun¬ 
day at church-time. I’ve wished again and again I’d been a 
bloody-minded man, that I could have strangled the mother io 
and the brats with one cord.” 

“I’m glad it was no worse a cause kept you from church,” 
said Adam. “I was afraid you must be ill for the first time i’ 
your life. And I was particular sorry not to have you at 
church yesterday.” 15 

“Ah, my boy, I know why, I know why,” said Bartle, 
kindly, going up to Adam, and raising his hand up to the 
shoulder that was almost on a level with his own head. “You’ve 
had a rough bit o’ road to get over since I saw you—a rough 
bit o’ road. But I’m in hopes there are better times coming 20 
for you. I’ve got some news to tell you. But I must get 
my supper first, for I’m hungry, I’m hungry. Sit down, sit 
down.” 

Bartle went into his little pantry, and brought out an excel¬ 
lent home-baked lokf; for it was his cne extravagance in these 25 
dear times to eat bread once a-day instead of oat-cake; and he 
justified it by observing, that what a schoolmaster wanted was 
brains, and oat-cake ran too much to bone instead of brains. 
Then came a piece of cheese and a quart jug with a crown of 
foam upon it. He placed them all on the round deal table 30 
which stood against his large arm-chair in the chimney- 
corner, with Vixen’s hamper on one side of it, and a window- 
shelf with a few books piled up in it on the other. The table 
was as clean as if Vixen had been an excellent housewife in a 
checkered apron; so was the quarry floor; and the old °carved 35 
oaken press, table, and chairs—which in these days would 
be bought at a high price in aristocratic houses, though, in 


ADAM BEDE 


256 

°that period of spider-legs and inlaid cupids, Bartle had got 
them for an old song—were as free from dust as things could 
be at the end of a summer’s day. 

“Now, then, my boy, draw up, draw up. We’ll not talk 
5 about business till we’ve had our supper. No man can be 
wise on an empty stomach. But,” said Bartle, rising from his 
chair again, “I must give Vixen her supper too, confound her! 
though she’ll do nothing with it but nourish those unneces¬ 
sary babbies. That’s the way with these women, they’ve got 
10 no head-pieces to nourish, and so their food all runs either to 
fat or to brats.” 

He brought out of the pantry a dish of scraps, which Vixen 
at once fixed her eyes on, and jumped out of her hamper to 
lick up with the utmost despatch. 

15 “I’ve had my supper, Mr. Massey,” said Adam, “so I’ll 
look on while you eat yours. I’ve been at the Hall Farm, and 
they always have their supper betimes, you know: they don’t 
keep your late hours.” 

“I know little about their hours,” said Bartle, dryly, cut- 
20 ting his bread and not shrinking from the crust. “ It’s a house 
I seldom go into, though I’m fond of the boys, and Martin 
Poyser’s a good fellow. There’s too many women in the house 
for me: I hate the sound of women’s voices; they’re always 
either a-buzz or a-squeak—always either a-buzz or a-squeak. 
25 Mrs. Poyser keeps at the top o’ the talk like a fife; and as for 
the young lasses, I’d as soon look at water-grubs—I know 
what they’ll turn to—stinging gnats, stinging gnats. Here, 
take some ale, my boy: it’s been drawn for you—it’s been 
drawn for you. ” 

30 “Nay, Mr. Massey,” said Adam, who took his old friend’s 
whim more seriously than usual to-night, “don’t be so hard 
on the creaturs God has made to be companions for us. A 
working man ’ud be badly off without a wife to see to th’ 
house and the victual, and make things clean and comfortable. 
35 “Nonsense! It’s the silliest lie a sensible man like you ever 
believed, to say a woman makes a house comfortable. It’s 
a story got up, because the women are there, and something 


NIGHT SCHOOL AND SCHOOL MASTER 


257 


must be found for ’em to do. I tell you there isn’t a thing 
under the sun that needs to be done at all, but what a man can 
do better than a woman, unless it’s bearing children, and they 
do that in a poor make-shift way; it had better ha’ been left to 
the men—it had better ha’ been left to the men. I tell you, 5 
a woman ’ull bake you a pie every week of her life, and never 
come to see that the hotter th’ oven the shorter the time. I 
tell you, a woman ’ull make your porridge every day for 
twenty years, and never think of measuring the proportion 
between the meal and the milk—a little more or less, she’ll 10 
think, doesn’t signify: the porridge will be awk’ard now and 
then: if it’s wrong, it’s summat in the meal, or it’s summat in 
the milk, or it’s summat in the water. Look at me! I make 
my own bread, and there’s no difference between one batch 
and another from year’s end to year’s end; but if I’d got any 15 
other woman besides Vixen in the house, I must pray to the 
Lord every baking to give me patience if the bread turned out 
heavy. And as for cleanliness, my house is cleaner than any 
other house on the Common, though the half of ’em swarm 
with women. Will Baker’s lad comes to help me in a mom- 20 
ing, and we get as much cleaning done in one hour without any 
fuss, as a woman ’ud get done in three, and all the while be 
sending buckets o’ water after your ankles, and let the fender 
and the fire-irons stand in the middle o’ the floor half the day, 
for you to break your shins against ’em. Don’t tell me about 25 
God having made such creatures to be companions for us! 

I don’t say but He might make Eve to be a companion to 
Adam in Paradise—there was no cooking to be spoilt there, and 
no other woman to cackle with and make mischief; though you 
see what mischief she did as soon as she’d an opportunity. 30 
But it’s an impious, unscriptural opinion to say a woman’s a 
blessing to a man now; you might as well say adders and 
wasps, and foxes and wild beasts, are a blessing, when they’re 
only the evils that belong to this state o’ probation, which it’s 
lawful for a man to keep as clear of as he can in this life, hop-35 
ing to get quit of ’em for ever in another—hoping to get quit 
of ’em for ever in another. ” 


2 5 8 


ADAM BEDE 


Bartle had become so excited and angry in the course of his 
invective that he had forgotten his supper, and only used the 
knife for the purpose of rapping the table with the haft. But 
towards the close, the raps became so sharp and frequent, and 
5 his voice so quarrelsome, that Vixen felt it incumbent on her 
to jump out of the hamper and bark vaguely. 

“Quiet, Vixen!” snarled Bartle, turning round upon her. 
“You’re like the rest o’ the women—always putting in your 
word before you know why. ” 

io Vixen returned to her hamper again in humiliation, and her 
master continued his supper in a silence which Adam did not 
choose to interrupt; he knew the old man would be in a better 
humour when he had had his supper and lighted his pipe. 
Adam was used to hear him talk in this way, but had never 
15 learned so much of Bartle’s past life as to know whether his 
view of married comfort was founded on experience. On that 
point Bartle was mute; and it was even a secret where he had 
lived previous to the twenty years in which, happily for the 
peasants and artisans of this neighbourhood, he had been set- 
20 tied among them as their only schoolmaster. If anything like 
a question was ventured on this subject, Bartle always re¬ 
plied, “ Oh, I’ve seen many places—I’ve been a deal in the 
south and the Loamshire men would as soon have thought 
of asking for a particular town or village in Africa as in “the 
25 south.” 

“Now then my boy,” said Bartle, at last, when he had 
poured out his second mug of ale and lighted his pipe— “now 
then, we 11 have a little talk. But tell me first, have you heard 
any particular news to-day?” 

30 “No,” said Adam, “not as I remember.” 

“Ah, they’ll keep it close, they’ll keep it close, I daresay. 
But I found it out by chance; and it’s news that may concern 
you, Adam, else I’m a man that don’t know a superficial 
square foot from a solid.” 

35 Here Bartle gave a series of fierce and rapid puffs, looking 
earnestly the while at Adam. Your impatient loquacious man 
has never any notion of keeping his pipe alight by gentle 


NIGHT SCHOOL AND SCHOOL MASTER 


259 

measured puffs; he is always letting it go nearly out, and then 
punishing it for that negligence. At last he said— 

“Satchell’s got a paralytic stroke. I found it out from the 
lad they sent to Treddleston for the doctor, before seven 
o’clock this morning. He’s a good way beyond sixty, you 5 
know; it’s much if he gets over it. ” 

“Well,” said Adam, “I daresay there’d be more rejoicing 
than sorrow in the parish at his being laid up. He’s been a 
selfish, tale-bearing, mischievous fellow; but, after all, there’s 
nobody he’s done so much harm to as to th’ old Squire. 10 
Though it’s the Squire himself as is to blame—making a stupid 
fellow like that a sort o’ man-of-all-work, just to save th’ ex¬ 
pense of having a proper steward to look after th’ estate. And 
he’s lost more by ill-management o’ the woods, I’ll be bound, 
than ’ud pay for two stewards. If he’s laid on the shelf, it’s 15 
to be hoped he’ll make way for a better man, but I don’t see 
how it’s like to make any difference to me. ” 

“But I see it, but I see it,” said Bartle; “and others besides 
me. The Captain’s coming of age now—you know that as 
well as I do—and it’s to be expected he’ll have a little more 20 
voice in things. And I know, and you know too, what ’ud be 
the Captain’s wish about the woods, if there was a fair oppor¬ 
tunity for making a change. He’s said in plenty of people’s 
hearing that he’d make you manager of the woods to-morrow, 
if he’d the power. Why, Carroll, Mr. Irwine’s butler, heard 25 
him say so to the parson not many days ago. Carroll looked 
in when we were smoking our pipes o’ Saturday night at 
Casson’s, and he told us about it; and whenever anybody says 
a good word for you, the parson’s ready to back it, that I’ll 
answer for. It was pretty well talked over, I can tell you, at 30 
Casson’s, and one and another had their fling at you; for if 
donkeys set to work to sing, you’re pretty sure what the tune’ll 
be.” 

“Why, did they talk it over before Mr. Burge?” said 
Adam; “or wasn’t he there o’ Saturday?” 35 

“Oh, he went away before Carroll came; and Casson—he’s 
always for setting other folks right, you know—would have it 


26 o 


ADAM BEDE 


Burge was the man to have the management of the woods. 
‘A substantial man/ says he, ‘with pretty near sixty years' 
experience o’ timber: it ’ud be all very well for Adam Bede to 
act under him, but it isn’t to be supposed the Squire ’ud appoint 
5 a young fellow like Adam, when there’s his elders and betters 
at hand!’ But I said, ‘That’s a pretty notion o’ yours, 
Casson. Why, Burge is the man to buy timber; would you put 
the woods into his hands, and let him make his own bargains? 
I think you don’t leave your customers to score their own 
io drink, do you? And as for age, what that’s worth depends on 
the quality o’ the liquor. It’s pretty well known who’s the 
backbone of Jonathan Burge’s business.’ ” 

“ I thank you for your good word, Mr. Massey,” said Adam. 
“But, for all that, Casson was partly i’ the right for once, 
is There’s not much likelihood that th’ old Squire ’ud ever con¬ 
sent t’ employ me: I offended him about two years ago, and 
he’s never forgiven me.” 

“Why, how was that? You never told me about it,” said 
Bartle. 

20 “Oh, it was a bit o’nonsense. I’d made a frame for a screen 
for Miss Lyddy—she’s allays making something with her 
worsted-work, you know—and she’d given me particular 
orders about this screen, and there was as much talking and 
measuring as if we’d been planning a house. However, it was 
25 a nice bit o’ work, and I liked doing it for her. But, you know, 
those little friggling things take a deal o’ time. I only worked 
at it in over-hours—often late at night—and I had to go to 
• Treddleston over an’ over again, about little bits o’ brass nails 
and such gear; and I turned the little knobs and the legs, and 
30 carved th’ open work, after a pattern, as nice as could be. 
And I was uncommon pleased with it when it was done. And 
when I took it home, Miss Lyddy sent for me to bring it into 
her drawing-room, so as she might give me directions about 
fastening on the work—very fine needlework, 0 Jacob and 
35 Rachel a-kissing one another among the sheep, like a picture— 
and th’ old Squire was sitting there, for he mostly sits with 
her. Well, she was mighty pleased with the screen, and then 


NIGHT SCHOOL AND SCHOOL MASTER 


261 


she wanted to know what pay she was to give me. I didn’t 
speak at random—you know it’s not my way; I’d calculated 
pretty close, though I hadn’t made out a bill, and I said, One 
pound thirteen. That was paying for the mater’als and paying 
me, but none too much, for my work. Th’ old Squire looked 5 
up at this, and peered in his way at the screen, and said, ‘One 
pound thirteen for a °gimcrack like that! Lydia, my dear, if 
you must spend money on these things, why don’t you get 
them at Rosseter, instead of paying double price for clumsy 
work here? Such things are not work for a carpenter like 10 
Adam. Give him a guinea, and no more.’ Well, Miss Lyddy, 

I reckon, believed what he told her, and she’s not over-fond o’ 
parting with the money herself—she’s not a bad woman at 
bottom, but she’s been brought up under his thumb; so she 
began fidgeting with her purse, and turned as red as her rib- 15 
bon. But I made a bow, and said, ‘No, thank you, madam; 
I’ll make you a present o’ the screen, if you please. I’ve 
charged the regular price for my work, and I know it’s done 
well; and I know, begging his honour’s pardon, that you 
couldn’t get such a screen at Rosseter under two guineas. I’m 20 
willing to give you my work—it’s been done in my own time, 
and nobody’s got anything to do with it but me; but if I’m 
paid, I can’t take a smaller price than I asked, because that 
’ud be like saying, I’d asked more than was just. With your 
leave, madam, I’ll bid you good-morning.’ I made my bow 25 
and went out before she’d time to say any more, for she 
stood with the purse in her hand, looking almost foolish. I 
didn’t mean to be disrespectful, and I spoke as polite as I 
could; but I can give in to no man, if he wants to make it 
out as I’m trying to overreach him. And in the evening the 30 
footman brought me the one thirteen wrapped in paper. But 
since then I’ve seen pretty clear as th’ old Squire can’t 
abide me.” 

“That’s likely enough, that’s likely enough,” said Bartle, 
meditatively. “The only way to bring him round would be35 
to show him what was for his own interest, and that the Cap¬ 
tain may do—that the Captain may do. ” 


262 


ADAM BEDE 


“Nay, I don’t know,” said Adam; “the Squire’s ’cute 
enough, but it takes something else besides ’cuteness to make 
folks see what’ll be their interest in the long-run. It takes 
some conscience and belief in right and wrong, I see that pretty 
s clear. You’d hardly ever bring round th’ old Squire to believe 
he’d gain as much in a straight-for’ard way as by tricks and 
turns. And, besides, I’ve not much mind to work under him: 
I don’t want to quarrel with any gentleman, more particular 
an old gentleman turned eighty, and I know we couldn’t 
10 agree long. If the Captain was master o’ th’ estate, it ’ud be 
different: he’s got a conscience and a will to do right, and I’d 
sooner work for him nor for any man living. ” ? 

“Well, well, my boy, if good luck knocks at your door, don’t 
you put your head out at window and tell it to be gone about 
is its business, that’s all. You must learn to deal with odd and 
even in life, as well as in figures. I tell you now, as I told you 
ten years ago, when you pommelled young Mike Holdsworth 
for wanting to pass a bad shilling, before you knew whether he 
was in jest or earnest—you’re over-hasty and proud, and apt 
20 to set your teeth against folks that don’t square to your 
notions. It’s no harm for me to be a bit fiery and stiff-backed: 
I’m an old schoolmaster, and shall never want to get on to a 
higher perch. But where’s the use of all the time I’ve spent in 
teaching you writing and mapping and mensuration, if you’re 
25 not to get for’ard in the world, and show folks there’s some ad¬ 
vantage in having a head on your shoulders, instead of a 
turnip? Do you mean to go on turning up your nose at every 
opportunity, because it’s got a bit of a smell about it that 
nobody finds out but yourself? It’s as foolish as'that notion o’ 
30 yours that a wife is to make a working man comfortable. 
Stuff and nonsense!—stuff and nonsense! Leave that to fools 
that never got beyond a sum in simple addition. Simple addi¬ 
tion enough! Add one fool to another fool, and in six years’ 
time six fools more—they’re all of the same denomination, 
35 big and little’s nothing to do with the sum!” 

During this rather heated exhortation to coolness and dis¬ 
cretion the pipe had gone out, and Bartle gave the climax to 


NIGHT SCHOOL AND SCHOOL MASTER 263 

his speech by striking a light furiously, after which he puffed 
with fierce resolution, fixing his eye still on Adam, who was 
trying not to laugh. 

“There’s a good deal o’ sense in what you say, Mr. Mas¬ 
sey,” Adam began, as soon as he felt quite serious, “as there 5 
always is. But you’ll give in that it’s no business o’ mine to be 
building on chances that may never happen. What I’ve got 
to do is to work as well as I can with the tools and mater’als 
I’ve got in my hands. If a good chance comes to me, I’ll 
think o’ what you’ve been saying; but till then, I’ve got 10 
nothing to do but to trust to my own hands and my own head- 
piece. I’m turning over a little plan for Seth and me to go into 
the cabinet-making a bit by ourselves, and win a extra pound 
or two in that way. But it’s getting late now—it’ll be pretty 
near eleven before Im at home, and mother may happen to 15 
lie awake; she’s more fidgety nor usual now. So I’ll bid you 
good-night.” 

“Well, well, we’ll go to the gate with you—it’s a fine night,” 
said Bartle, taking up his stick. Vixen was at once on her 
legs, and without further words the three walked out into the 20 
starlight, by the side of Bartle’s potato-beds, to the little 

gate. 

“Come to the music o’ Friday night, if you can, my boy,” 
said the old man, as he closed the gate after Adam, and leaned 
against it. 25 

“Ay, ay,” said Adam, striding along towards the streak of 
pale road. He was the only object moving on the wide com¬ 
mon. The two grey donkeys, just visible in front of the gorse 
bushes, stood as still as limestone images—as still as the grey- 
thatched roof of the mud cottage a little farther on. Bartle 30 
kept his eye on the moving figure till it passed into the dark¬ 
ness, while Vixen, in a state of divided affection, had twice run 
back to the house to bestow a parenthetic lick on her puppies. 

“Ay, ay,” muttered the schoolmaster, as Adam disap¬ 
peared; “there you go, stalking along—stalking along; but35 
you wouldn’t have been what you are if you handn’t had a bit 
of old lame Bartle inside you. The strongest calf must have 


ADAM BEDE 


264 

something to suck at. There’s plenty of these big, lumbering 
fellows ’ud never have known their a b c if it hadn’t been for 
Bartle Massey. Well, well, Vixen, you foolish wench, what is 
it, what is it? I must go in, must I? Ay, ay, I’m never to have 
s a will o’ my own any more. And those pups, what do you 
think I’m to do with ’em, when they’re twice as big as you?— 
for I’m pretty sure the father was that hulking bull-terrier of 
Will Baker’s—wasn’t he now, eh, you sly hussey?” (Here 
Vixen tucked her tail between her legs, and ran forward into 
10 the house. Subjects are sometimes broached which a well- 
bred female will ignore.) 

“ But where’s the use of talking to a woman with babbies?” 
continued Bartle: “she’s got no conscience—no conscience; 
it’s all run to milk.” 


CHAPTER XXII 

GOING TO THE BIRTHDAY FEAST 

The thirtieth of July was come, and it was one of those half- 
dozen warm days which sometimes occur in the middle of a 
rainy English summer. No rain had fallen for the last three or 
four days, and the weather was perfect for that time of the 
year: there was less dust than usual on the dark-green hedge- 5 
rows, and on the wild °camomile that starred the roadside, 
yet the grass was dry enough for the little children to roll on 
it, and there was no cloud but a long dash of light, downy 
ripple, high, high up in the far-off blue sky. Perfect weather 
for an outdoor July merrymaking, yet surely not the best time 10 
of year to be born in. Nature seems to make a hot pause just 
then—all the loveliest flowers are gone; the sweet time of 
early growth and vague hopes is past; and yet the time of 
harvest and ingathering is not come, and we tremble at the 
possible storms that may ruin the precious fruit in the moment 15 
of its ripeness. The woods are all one dark monotonous green; 
the waggon-loads of hay no longer creep along the lanes, scat¬ 
tering their sweet-smelling fragments on the blackberry 
branches; the pastures are often a little tanned, yet the corn 
has not got its last splendour of red and gold; the lambs and 20 
calves have lost all traces of their innocent frisky prettiness, 
and have become stupid young sheep and cows. But it is a 
time of leisure on the farm—that pause between hay and corn 
harvest, and so the farmers and labourers in Hayslope and 
Broxton thought the Captain did well to come of age just 25 
then, when they could give their undivided minds to the 
flavour of the great cask of ale which had been brewed the 
autumn after “the heir” was born, and was to be tapped on 
his twenty-first birthday. The air had been merry with the 

2 65 


2 66 


ADAM BEDE 


ringing of church-bells very early this morning, and every one 
had made haste to get through the needful work before twelve, 
when it would be time to think of getting ready to go to the 
Chase. 

s The mid-day sun was streaming into Hetty’s bedchamber, 
and there was no blind to temper the heat with which it fell 
on her head as she looked at herself in the old specked glass. 
Still, that was the only glass she had in which she could see 
her neck and arms, for the small hanging glass she had fetched 
io out of the next room—the room that had been Dinah’s—• 
would show her nothing below her little chin, and that beau¬ 
tiful bit of neck where the roundness of her cheek melted into 
another roundness shadowed by dark delicate curls. And to¬ 
day she thought more than usual about her neck and arms; for 
i 5 at the dance this evening she was not to wear any neckerchief, 
and she had been busy yesterday with her spotted pink-and- 
white frock, that she might make the sleeves either long or 
short at will. She was dressed now just as she was to be in the 
evening, with a °tucker made of “real” lace, which her aunt 
20 had lent her for this unparalleled occasion, but with no orna¬ 
ments besides; she had even taken out her small round earrings 
which she wore every day. But there was something more to 
be done, apparently, before she put on her neckerchief and 
long sleeves, which she was to wear in the daytime, for now 
25 she unlocked the drawer that held her private treasures. It is 
more than a month since we saw her unlock that drawer be¬ 
fore, and now it holds new treasures, so much more precious 
than the old ones that these are thrust into the corner. Hetty 
would not care to put the large coloured glass earrings into her 
30ears now; for see! she has got a beautiful pair of gold and 
pearls and garnet, lying snugly in a pretty little box lined with 
white satin. Oh the delight of taking out that little box and 
looking at the earrings! Do not reason about it, my philoso¬ 
phical reader, and say that Hetty, being very pretty, must 
35 have known that it did not signify whether she had on any 
ornaments or not; and that, moreover, to look at earrings which 
she could not possibly wear out of her bed-room could hardly 


GOING TO THE BIRTHDAY FEAST 


267 

be a satisfaction, the essence of vanity being a reference to the 
impressions produced on others, °you will never understand 
women’s natures if you are so excessively rational. Try 
rather to divest yourself of all your rational prejudices, as 
much as if you were studying the psychology of a canary 5 
bird, and only watch the movements of this pretty round 
creature as she turns her head on one side with an uncon¬ 
scious smile at the earrings nestled in the little box. Ah, you 
think, it is for the sake of the person who has given them to 
her, and her thoughts are gone back now to the moment when 10 
they were put into her hands. No; else why should she have 
cared to have earrings rather than anything else? and I know 
that she had longed for earrings from among all the ornaments 
she could imagine. 

“Little, little ears!” Arthur had said, pretending to pinch 15 
them one evening, as Hetty sat beside him on the grass with¬ 
out her hat. “I wish I had some pretty earrings!” she said 
in a moment, almost before she knew what she was saying— 
the wish lay so close to her lips it would flutter past them at the 
slightest breath. And the next day—it was only last week— 20 
Arthur had ridden over to Rosseter on purpose to buy them. 
That little wish so naively uttered, seemed to him the prettiest 
bit of childishness; he had never heard anything like it before; 
and he had wrapped the box up in a great many covers, that 
he might see Hetty unwrapping it with growing curiosity, till 25 
at last her eyes flashed back their new delight into his. 

No, she was not thinking most of the giver when she smiled 
at the earrings, for now she is taking them out of the box, not 
to press them to her lips, but to fasten them in her ears,—only 
for one moment, to see how pretty they look, as she peeps at 30 
them in the glass against the wall, with first one position of the 
head and then another, like a listening bird. It is impossible 
to be wise on the subject of earrings as one looks at her; what 
should those delicate pearls and crystals be made for, if not 
for such ears? One cannot even find fault with the tiny round 35 
hole which they leave when they are taken out; perhaps water- 
nixies, and such lovely things without souls, have these little 


ADAM BEDE 


268 

round holes in their ears by nature, ready to hang jewels in. 
And Hetty must be one of them: it is too painful to think that 
she is a woman, with a woman’s destiny before her—a woman 
spinning in young ignorance a light web of folly and vain 
s hopes which may one day close round her and press upon her, 
a rancorous poisoned garment, changing all at once her flut¬ 
tering, trivial butterfly sensations into a life of deep human 

anguish. . 

But she cannot keep in the earrings long, else she may make 
IO her uncle and aunt wait. She puts them quickly into the box 
again, and shuts them up. Some day she will be able to wear 
any earrings she likes, and already she lives in an invisible 
world of brilliant costumes, shimmering gauze, soft satin, and 
velvet, such as the lady’s-maid at the Chase has shown her in 
15 Miss Lydia’s wardrobe: she feels the bracelets on her arms, 
and treads on a soft carpet in front of a tall mirror. But she 
has one thing in the drawer which she can venture to wear to¬ 
day, because she can hang it on the chain of dark-brown ber¬ 
ries which she has been used to wear on grand days, with a 
20 tiny flat scent-bottle at the end of it tucked inside her frock; 
and she must put on her brown berries—her neck would look 
so unfinished without it. Hetty was not quite as fond of the 
locket as of the earrings, though it was a handsome large 
locket, with enamelled flowers at the back and a beautiful gold 
as border round the glass, which showed a light-brown slightly 
waving lock, forming a background for two little dark rings. 
She must keep it under her clothes, and no one would see it. 
But Hetty had another passion, only a little less strong than 
her love of finery; and that other passion made her like to wear 
30 the locket even hidden in her bosom. She would always have 
worn it, if she had dared to encounter her aunt’s questions 
about a ribbon round her neck. So now she slipped it on along 
her chain of dark-brown berries, and snapped the chain round 
her neck. It was not a very long chain, only allowing the 
35 locket to hang a little way below the edge of her frock. And 
now she had nothing to do to put on her long sleeves, her new 
white gauze neckerchief, and her straw hat trimmed with 


GOING TO THE BIRTHDAY FEAST 


269 

white to-day instead of the pink, which had become rather 
faded under the July sun. That had made the drop of bitterness 
in Hetty’s cup to-day, for it was not quite new—everybody 
would see that it was a little tanned against the white ribbon— 
and Mary Burge, she felt sure, would have a new hat or bon- 5 
net on. She looked for consolation at her fine white cotton 
stockings: they really were very nice indeed, and she had given 
almost all her spare money for them. Hetty’s dream of the 
future could not make her insensible to triumph in the pres¬ 
ent: to be sure, Captain Donnithorne loved her so, that he 10 
would never care about looking at other people, but then 
those other people didn’t know how he loved her, and she was 
not satisfied to appear shabby and insignificant in their eyes 
even for a short space. 

The whole party was assembled in the house-place when 15 
Hetty went down, all of course in their Sunday clothes; and 
the bells had been ringing so this morning in honour of the 
Captain’s twenty-first birthday, and the work had all been 
got done so early, that Marty and Tommy were not quite 
easy in their minds until their mother had assured them that 20 
going to church was not part of the day’s festivities. Mr. 
Poyser had once suggested that the house should be shut up, 
and left to take care of itself; “for,” said he, “there’s no 
danger of anybody’s breaking in—everybody’ll be at the 
Chase, thieves an’ all. If we lock th’ house up, all the men 25 
can go: it’s a day they wonna see twice i’ their lives.” But 
Mrs. Poyser answered with great decision: “I never left the 
house to take care of itself since I was a missis, and I never 
will. There’s been ill-looking tramps enoo’ about the place 
this last week, to carry off every ham an’ every spoon we’n 3 o 
got; and they all collogue together, them tramps, as it’s a 
mercy they hanna come and poisoned the dogs and murdered 
us all in our beds afore we knowed, some Friday night when 
we’n got the money in th’ house to pay the men. And it’s 
like enough the tramps know where we’re going as well as we35 
do oursens; for if ° 01 d Harry wants any work done, you may 
be sure he’ll find the means.” 


2JO 


ADAM BEDE 


“Nonsense about murdering us in our beds,” said Mr. 
Poyser: “I’ve got a gun i’ our room, hanna I? and thee’st 
got ears as ’ud find it out if a mouse was gnawing the bacon. 
Howiver, if thee wouidstna be easy, Alick can stay at home 
s i’ the forepart o’ the day, and Tim can come back tow’rds 
five o’clock, and let Alick have his turn. They may let Grow¬ 
ler loose if anybody offers to do mischief, and there’s Alick’s 
dog, too, ready enough to set his tooth in a tramp if Alick 
gives him a wink. ” 

io Mrs. Poyser accepted this compromise, but thought it ad¬ 
visable to bar and bolt to the utmost; and now, at the last 
moment before starting, Nancy, the dairy-maid, was closing 
the shutters of the house-place, although the window, lying 
under the immediate observation of Alick and the dogs, might 
15 have been supposed the least likely to be selected for a bur¬ 
glarious attempt. 

The covered cart, without springs, was standing ready to 
carry the whole family except the men-servants: Mr. Poyser 
and the grandfather sat on the seat in front, and within there 
20 was room for ail the women and children; the fuller the cart 
the better, because then the jolting would not hurt so much, 
and Nancy’s broad person and thick arms were an excellent 
cushion to be pitched on. But Mr. Poyser drove at no more 
than a walking pace, that there might be as little risk of jolting 
25 as possible on this warm day; and there was time to exchange 
greetings and remarks with the foot-passengers who were 
going the same way, specking the paths between the green 
meadows and the golden cornfields with bits of movable bright 
colour—a scarlet waistcoat to match the poppies that nodded 
30 a little too thickly among the corn, or a dark-blue necker¬ 
chief with ends flaunting across a bran-new white smock- 
frock. All Broxon and all Hayslope were to be at the Chase, 
and make merry there in honour of “th’ heir;” and the old 
men and women, who had never been so far down this side of 
35 the hill for the last twenty years, were being brought from 
Broxton and Hayslope in one of the farmer’s waggons, at 
Mr. Irwine’s suggestion. The church-bells had struck up 


GOING TO THE BIRTHDAY FEAST 


271 


again now—a last tune, before the ringers came down the hill 
to have their share in the festival; and before the bells had 
finished, other music was heard approaching so that even Old 
Brown, the sober horse that was drawing Mr. Poyser’s cart, 
began to prick up his ears. It was the band of the Benefit 5 
Club, which had mustered in all its glory; that is to say, in 
bright-blue scarfs and blue favours, and carrying its banner 
with the motto, “Let brotherly love continue,” encircling 
a picture of a stone-pit. 

The carts, of course, were not to enter the Chase. Every 10 
one must get down at the lodges, and the vehicles must be 
sent back. 

“Why, the Chase is like a fair a’ready,” said Mrs. Poyser, 
as she got down from the cart, and saw the groups scattered 
under the great oaks, and the boys running about in the hot 15 
sunshine to survey the tall poles surmounted by the flutter¬ 
ing garments that were to be the prize of the successful 
climbers. “I should ha’ thought there wasna so many people 
i’ the two parishes. Mercy on us! how hot it is out o’ the 
shade! Come here, Totty, else your little face ’ull be burnt to 20 
a scratchin’! They might ha’ cooked the dinners i’ that open 
space an’ saved the fires. I shall go to Mrs. Best’s room an’ 
sit down. ” 

“Stop a bit, stop a bit,” said Mr. Poyser. “There’s th’ 
waggin coming wi’ th’ old folks in’t; it’ll be such a sight as 25 
wonna come o’er again, to see ’em get down an’ walk along all 
together. You remember some on ’em i’ their prime, eh, 
father?” 

“Ay, ay,” said old Martin, walking slowly under the 
shade of the lodge porch, from which he could see the aged 30 
party descend. “I remember Jacob Taft walking fifty mile 
after the °Scotch raybels, when they turned back from 
Stoniton.” 

He felt himself quite a youngster, with a long life before him, 
as he saw the Hayslope patriarch, old Feyther Taft, descend 35 
from the waggon and walk towards him, in his brown night¬ 
cap, and leaning on his two sticks. 


272 


ADAM BEDE 


Well, Mester Taft,” shouted old Martin, at the utmost 
stretch of his voice,—for though he knew the old man was 
stone deaf, he could not omit the propriety of a greeting,— 
"‘you’re hearty yet. You can enjoy yoursen to-day, for all 
S you’re ninety an’ better.” 

“Your sarvant, mesters, your sarvant,” said Feyther Taft 
in a treble tone, perceiving that he was in company. 

The aged group, under care of sons or daughters, them¬ 
selves worn and grey, passed on along the least-winding car- 
10 nage-road towards the house, where a special table was 
prepared for them; while the Poyser party wisely struck 
across the grass under the shade of the great trees, but not out 
of view of the house-front, with its sloping lawn and flower¬ 
beds, or of the pretty striped °marquee at the edge of the lawn, 
is standing at right angles with two larger marquees on each 
side of the open green space where the games were to be play¬ 
ed. The house would have been nothing but a plain square 
mansion of Queen Anne’s time, but for the remnant of an old 
abbey to which it was united at one end, in much the same 
20 way as one may sometimes see a new farmhouse rising high 
and prim at the end of older and lower farm-offices. The fine 
old remnant stood a little backward and under the shadow of 
tall beeches, but the sun was now on the taller and more ad¬ 
vanced front, the blinds were all down, and the house seemed 
25 asleep in the hot mid-day: it made Hetty quite sad to look at 
it: Arthur must be somewhere in the back rooms, with the 
grand company, where he could not possibly know that she 

was come, and she should not see him for a long, long while_ 

not till after-dinner, when they said he was to come up and 
30 make a speech. 

But Hetty was wrong in part of her conjecture. No grand 
company was come except the Irwines, for whom the carriage 
had been sent early, and Arthur was at that moment not in a 
back room, but walking with the Rector into the broad stone 
35 cloisters of the old abbey, where the long tables were laid for 
all the cottage tenants and the farm-servants. A very hand¬ 
some young Briton he looked to-day, in high spirits and 


GOING TO THE BIRTHDAY FEAST 


273 


a bright-blue frock-coat, the highest mode—his arm no 
longer in a sling. So open-looking and candid, too; but candid 
people have their secrets, and secrets leave no lines in young 
faces. 

“Upon my word,” he said, as they entered the cool clois-5 
ters, “I think the cottagers have the best of it: these cloisters 
make a delightful dining-room on a hot day. That was capital 
advice of yours, Irwine, about the dinners—to let them be as 
orderly and comfortable as possible, and only for the tenants: 
especially as I had only a limited sum after all; for though my 10 
grandfather talked of a carte blanche , he couldn’t make up his 
mind to trust me, when it came to the point.” 

“Never mind, you’ll give more pleasure in this quiet way,” 
said Mr. Irwine. “In this sort of thing people are constantly 
confounding liberality with riot and disorder. It sounds very 15 
grand to say that so many sheep and oxen were roasted whole, 
and everybody ate who liked to come; but in the end it gen¬ 
erally happens that no one has had an enjoyable meal. If the 
people get a good dinner and a moderate quantity of ale in the 
middle of the day, they’ll be able to enjoy the games as the day 20 
cools. You can’t hinder some of them from getting too much 
towards evening, but drunkenness and darkness go better 
together than drunkenness and daylight.” 

“Well, I hope there won’t be much of it. I’ve kept the 
Treddleston people away, by having a feast for them in the 25 
town; and I’ve got Casson and Adam Bede, and some other 
good fellows, to look to the giving out of ale in the booths, and 
to take care things don’t go too far. Come, let us go up above 
now, and see the dinner-tables for the large tenants.” 

They went up the stone staircase leading simply to the long 30 
gallery above the cloisters, a gallery where all the dusty 
worthless old pictures had been banished for the last three 
generations—mouldy portraits of °Queen Elizabeth and her 
ladies, °General Monk with his eye knocked out, °Daniel very 
much in the dark among the lions, and “Julius Caesar on horse- 35 
back, with a high nose and laurel crown, holding his Com¬ 
mentaries in his hand. 


274 


ADAM BEDE 


“What a capital thing it is that they saved this piece of the 
old abbey!” said Arthur. “If I’m ever master here, I shall do 
up the gallery in first-rate style: we’ve got no room in the 
house a third as large as this. That second table is for the 
5 farmers’ wives and children: Mrs. Best said it would be more 
comfortable for the mothers and children to be by themselves. 
I was determined to have the children, and make a regular 
family thing of it. I shall be ‘ the old squire’ to those little lads 
and lasses some day, and they’ll tell their children what a 
io much finer young fellow I was than my own son. There’s a 
table for the women and children below as well. But you will 
see them all—you will come up with me after dinner, I hope?” 

“Yes, to be sure,” said Mr. Irwine. “I wouldn’t miss your 
maiden speech to the tenantry.” 
is “And there will be something else you’ll like to hear,” said 
Arthur. “Let us go into the library and I’ll tell you all about 
it while my grandfather is in the drawing-room with the 
ladies. Something that will surprise you,” he continued, as 
they sat down. “My grandfather has come round after all.” 

20 “ What, about Adam ? ” 

“Yes; I should have ridden over to tell you about it, only 
I was so busy. You know I told you I had quite given up 
arguing the matter with him—I thought it was hopeless; but 
yesterday morning he asked me to come in here to him before 
25 I went out, and astonished me by saying that he had decided 
on all the new arrangements he should make in consequence of 
old Satchell being obliged to lay by work, and that he intended 
to employ Adam in superintending the woods at a salary of a 
guinea a-week, and the use of a pony to be kept here. I believe 
3 o the secret of it is, he saw from the first it would be a profitable 
plan, but he had some particular dislike of Adam to get over— 
and besides, the fact that I propose a thing is generally a 
reason with him for rejecting it. There’s the most curious 
contradiction in my grandfather: I know he means to leave 
35 me all the money he has saved, and he is likely enough to have 
cut off poor Aunt Lydia, who has been a slave to him all her 
life, with only five hundred a-year, for the sake of giving me 


GOING TO THE BIRTHDAY FEAST 


275 


all the more; and yet I sometimes think he positively hates 
me because I’m his heir. I believe if I were to break my neck, 
he would feel it the greatest misfortune that could befall him, 
and yet it seems a pleasure to him to make my life a series of 
petty annoyances. ” 5 

“Ah, my boy, it is not only woman’s love that is °a7r epcoros 
epwsy as old iEschylus calls it. There’s plenty of ‘unloving 
love’ in the world of a masculine kind. But tell me about 
Adam. Has he accepted the post? I don’t see that it can be 
much more profitable than his present work, though, to be 10 
sure, it will leave him a good deal of time on his own hands.” 

“Well, I felt some doubt about it when I spoke to him, and 
he seemed to hesitate at first. His objection was, that he 
thought he should not be able to satisfy my grandfather. But 
I begged him as a personal favour to me not to let any reason is 
prevent him from accepting the place, if he really liked the 
employment, and would not be giving up anything that was 
more profitable to him. And he assured me he should like it of 
all things;—it would be a great step forward for him in busi¬ 
ness, and it would enable him to do what he had long wished 20 
to do—to give up working for Burge. He says he shall have 
plenty of time to superintend a little business of his own, which 
he and Seth will carry on, and will perhaps be able to enlarge 
by degrees. So he has agreed at last, and I have arranged that 
he shall dine with the large tenants to-day; and I mean to 25 
announce the appointment to them, and ask them to drink 
Adam’s health. It’s a little drama I’ve got up in honour of my 
friend Adam. He’s a fine fellow, and I like the opportunity of 
letting people know that I think so.” 

“A drama in which friend Arthur piques himself on having 30 
a pretty part to play,” said Mr. Irwine, smiling. But when he 
saw Arthur colour, he went on relentingly, “My part, you 
know, is always that of the old Fogy who sees nothing to ad¬ 
mire in the young folks. I don’t like to admit that I’m proud 
of my pupil when he does graceful things. But I must play 3s 
the amiable old gentleman for once, and second your toast 
in honour of Adam. Has your grandfather yielded on the 


ADAM BEDE 


276 

other point too, and agreed to have a respectable man as 
steward?” 

Oh no,” said Arthur, rising from his chair with an air of 
impatience, and walking along the room with his hands in his 
s pockets. “He’s got some project or other about letting the 
Chase Farm, and bargaining for a supply of milk and butter 
for the house. But I ask no questions about it—it makes me 
too angry. I believe he means to do all the business himself, 
and have nothing in the shape of a steward. It’s amazing 
10 what energy he has, though. ” 

“Well, we’ll go to the ladies now,” said Mr. Irwine, rising 
too. “ I want to tell my mother what a splendid throne you’ve 
prepared for her under the marquee. ” 

“Yes, and we must be going to luncheon too,” said Arthur, 
is It must be two o clock, for there is the gong beginning to 
sound for the tenant’s dinners.” 


CHAPTER XXIII 


DINNER-TIME 

When Adam heard that he was to dine up-stairs with the 
large tenants, he felt rather uncomfortable at the idea of be¬ 
ing exalted in this way above his mother and Seth, who were to 
dine in the cloisters below. But Mr. Mills, the butler, assured 
him that Captain Donnithorne had given particular orders 5 
about it, and would be very angry if Adam was not there. 

Adam nodded, and went up to Seth, who was standing a 
few yards off. “Seth, lad,” he said, “the Captain has sent to 
say I’m to dine up-stairs—he wishes it particular, Mr. Mills 
says, so I suppose it ’ud be behaving ill for me not to go. But 10 
I don’t like sitting up above thee and mother, as if I was better 
than my own flesh and blood. Thee’t not take it unkind, I 
hope?” 

“Nay, nay, lad,” said Seth, “thy honour’s our honour; and 
if thee get’st respect, thee’st won it by thy own deserts. The 15 
further I see thee above me, the better, so long as thee feel’st 
like a brother to me. It’s because o’ thy being appointed over 
the woods, and it’s nothing but what’s right. That’s a place 
o’ trust, and thee’t above a common workman now.” 

“Ay,” said Adam, “but nobody knows a word about it yet. 20 ' 
I haven’t given notice to Mr. Burge about leaving him, and 
I don’t like to tell anybody else about it before he knows, for 
he’ll be a good bit hurt, I doubt. People ’ull be wondering to 
see me there, and they’ll like enough be guessing the reason, 
and asking questions, for there’s been so much talk up and 25 
down about my having the place, this last three weeks.” 

“Well, thee canst say thee wast ordered to come without 
being told the reason. That’s the truth. And mother ’ull be 
fine and joyful about it. Let’s go and tell her.” 

2 77 


ADAM BEDE 


278 

Adam was not the only guest invited to come up-stairs on 
other grounds than the amount he contributed to the rent-roll. 
There were other people in the two parishes who derived dig¬ 
nity from their functions rather than from their pocket, and 
5 of these Bartle Massey was one. His lame walk was rather 
slower than usual on this warm day, so Adam lingered behind 
when the bell rang for dinner, that he might walk up with his 
old friend; for he was a little too shy to join the Poyser party 
on this public occasion. Opportunities of getting to Hetty’s 
10 side would be sure to turn up in the course of the day, and 
Adam contented himself with that, for he disliked any risk of 
being “joked” about Hetty;—the big, outspoken, fearless 
man was very shy and diffident as to his love-making. 

“Well, Mester Massey,” said Adam, as Bartle came up, 
15 “I’m going to dine up-stairs with you to-day: the Captain’s 
sent me orders.” 

“Ah!” said Bartle, pausing, with one hand on his back. 
“Then there’s something in the wind—there’s something in 
the wind. Have you heard anything about what the old 
20 Squire means to do ? ” 

“Why, yes,” said Adam; “I’ll tell you what I know, because 
I believe you can keep a still tongue in your head if you like, 
and I hope you’ll not let drop a word till it’s common talk, for 
I’ve particular reasons against its being known. ” 

25 “Trust to me, my boy, trust to me. I’ve got no wife to 
worm it out of me and then run out and cackle it in every¬ 
body’s hearing. If you trust a man, let him be a bachelor—- 
let him be a bachelor. ” 

“Well, then, it was so far settled yesterday, that I’m to take 
30 the management o’ the woods. The Captain sent for me t’ 
offer it me, when I was seeing to the poles and things here, and 
I’ve agreed to’t. But if anybody asks any questions up-stairs, 
just you take no notice, and turn the talk to something else, 
and I’ll be obliged to you. Now, let us go on, for we’re pretty 
35 nigh the last, I think.” 

“I know what to do, never fear,” said Bartle, moving on. 
“The news will be good sauce to my dinner. Ay, ay, my boy, 


DINNER TIME 


279 


you’ll get on. I’ll back you for an eye at measuring, and a 
head-piece for figures, against any man in this county; and 
you’ve had good teaching—you’ve had good teaching.” 

When they got up-stairs, the question which Arthur had 
left unsettled, as to who was to be president, and who vice, 5 
was still under discussion, so that Adam’s entrance passed 
without remark. 

“It stands to sense,” Mr. Casson was saying, “as old Mr. 
Poyser, as is th’ oldest man i’ the room, should sit at top o’ the 
table. I wasn’t butler fifteen year without learning the rights 10 
and the wrongs about dinner.” 

“Nay, nay,” said old Martin, “I’n gi’en up to my son; I’m 
no tenant now: let my son take my place. Th’ ould foulks ha’ 
had their turn: they mun make way for the young uns. ” 

“I should ha’ thought the biggest tenant had the best 15 
right, more nor th’ oldest,” said Luke Britton, who was not 
fond of the critical Mr. Poyser; “there’s Mester Holdsworth 
has more land nor anybody else on th’ estate.” 

“Well,” said Mr. Poyser, “suppose we say the man wi’ 
the foulest land shall sit at top; then whoever gets th’ honour, 20 
there’ll be no envying on him. ” 

“Eh, here’s Mester Massey,” said Mr. Craig, who, being a 
neutral in the dispute, had no interest but in conciliation; 
“the schoolmaster ought to be able to tell you what’s right. 
Who’s to sit at top o’ the table, Mr. Massey?” 25 

“Why, the broadest man,” said Bartle; “and then he won’t 
take up other folks’ room; and the next broadest must sit at 
bottom.” 

This happy mode of settling the dispute produced much 
laughter—a smaller joke would have sufficed for that. Mr. 30 
Casson, however, did not feel it compatible with his dignity 
and superior knowledge to join in the laugh, until it turned 
out that he was fixed on as the second broadest man. Martin 
Poyser the younger, as the broadest, was to be president, and 
Mr. Casson, as next broadest, was to be vice. 35 

Owing to this arrangement, Adam, being, of course, at the 
bottom of the table, fell under the immediate observation of 


28 o 


ADAM BEDE 


Mr. Casson, who, too much occupied with the question of 
precedence, had not hitherto noticed his entrance. Mr. Cas¬ 
son, we have seen, considered Adam “rather lifted up and 
peppery-like:” he thought the gentry made more fuss about 
5 this young carpenter than was necessary; they made no fuss 
about Mr. Casson, although he had been an excellent butler 
for fifteen years. 

“Well, Mr. Bede, you’re one o’ them as mounts hup ards 
apace,” he said, when Adam sat down. “You’ve niver dined 
io here before, as I remember. ” 

“No, Mr. Casson,” said Adam, in his strong voice, that 
could be heard along the table; “I’ve never dined here before, 
but I come by Captain Donnithorne’s wish, and I hope it’s not 
disagreeable to anybody here.” ; 

15 “Nay, nay,” said several voices at once, “we’re glad ye’re 
come. Who’s got anything to say again’ it ? ” 

“And ye’ll sing us ‘Over the hills and far away,’ after din¬ 
ner, wonna ye?” said Mr. Chowne. “That’s a song I’m un¬ 
common fond on. ” ] 

20 “Peeh!” said Mr. Craig; “it’s not to be named by side o’ 
the Scotch tunes. I’ve never cared about singing myself; I’ve 
had something better to do. A man that’s got the names and 
the natur o’ plants in’s head isna likely to keep a hollow place 
t* hold tunes in. But a second cousin o’ mine, a drovier, was a 
25 rare hand at remembering the Scotch tunes. He’d got nothing 
else to think on.” 

“The Scotch tunes!” said Bartle Massey, contemptuously; 
“I’ve heard enough o’ the Scotch tunes to last me while I live. 
They’re fit for nothing but to frighten the birds with—that’s 
30 to say, the English birds, for the Scotch birds may sing Scotch 
for what I know. Give the lads a bagpipes instead of a rattle, 
and I’ll answer for it the corn ’ll be safe. ” 

“Yes, there’s folks as find a pleasure in under-vallying 
what they know but little about, ” said Mr. Craig. 

35 “Why, the Scotch tunes are just like a scolding, nagging 
woman,” Bartle went on, without deigning to notice Mr. 
Craig’s remark. “They go on with the same thing over and 


DINNER TIME 


281 

over again, and never come to a reasonable end. Anybody ’ud 
think the Scotch tunes had always been asking a question of 
somebody as deaf as old Taft, and had never got an answer 
yet.” 

Adam minded the less about sitting by Mr. Casson, because 5 
this position enabled him to see Hetty, who was not far off 
him at the next table. Hetty, however, had not even noticed 
his presence yet, for she was giving angry attention to Totty, 
who insisted on drawing up her feet onto the bench in antique 
fashion, and thereby threatened to make dusty marks on 10 
Hetty’s pink-and-white frock. No sooner were the little fat 
legs pushed down than up they came again, for Totty’s eyes 
were too busy in staring at the large dishes to see where the 
plum-pudding was, for her to retain any consciousenss of her 
legs. Hetty got quite out of patience, and at last with a frown 15 
and pout, and gathering tears, she said— 

“Oh dear, aunt, I wish you’d speak to Totty; she keeps put¬ 
ting her legs up so, and messing my frock. ” 

“What’s the matter wi’ the child? She can niver please 
you,” said the mother. “Let her come by the side o’ me, 20 
then: / can put up wi’ her. ” 

Adam was looking at Hetty, and saw the frown, and pout, 
and the dark eyes seeming to grow larger with pettish half- 
gathered tears. Quiet Mary Burge, who sat near enough to 
see that Hetty was cross, and that Adam’s eyes were fixed on 25 
her, thought that so sensible a man as Adam must be reflecting 
on the small value of beauty in a woman whose temper was 
bad. Mary was a good girl, not given to indulge in evil feelings 
but she said to herself, that, since Hetty had a bad temper, it 
was better Adam should know it. And it was quite true, that 30 
if Hetty had been plain she would have looked very ugly and 
unamiable at that moment, and no one’s moral judgment 
upon her would have been in the least beguiled. But really 
there was something quite charming in her pettishness: it 
looked so much more like innocent distress than ill-humour; 35 
and the severe Adam felt no movement of disapprobation; he 
only felt a sort of amused pity, as if he had seen a kitten setting 


282 


ADAM BEDE 


up its back, or a little bird with its feathers ruffled. He could 
not gather what was vexing her, but it was impossible to him 
to feel otherwise than that she was the prettiest thing in the 
world, and that if he could have his way, nothing should ever 
5 vex her any more. And presently, when Totty was gone, she 
caught his eye, and her face broke into one of its brightest 
smiles, as she nodded to him. It was a bit of flirtation, she 
knew Mary Burge was looking at them. But the smile was 
like wine to Adam. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


THE HEALTH-DRINKING 

When the dinner was over, and the first draughts from the 
great cask of birthday ale were brought up, room was made 
for the broad Mr. Poyser at the side of the table, and two 
chairs were placed at the head. It had been settled very de¬ 
finitely what Mr. Poyser was to do when the young Squire 
should appear, and for the last five minutes he had been in a 
state of abstraction, with his eyes fixed on the dark picture 
opposite, and his hands busy with the loose cash and other 
articles in his breeches-pockets. 

When the young Squire entered, with Mr. Irwine by his 
side, every one stood up, and this moment of homage was very 
agreeable to Arthur. He liked to feel his own importance, and 
besides that, he cared a great deal for the goodwill of these 
people: he was fond of thinking that they had a hearty, special 
regard for him. The pleasure he felt was in his face as he said— 

“My grandfather and I hope all our friends here have en¬ 
joyed their dinner, and find my birthday ale good. Mr. 
Irwine and I are come to taste it with you, and I am sure we 
shall all like anything the better that the Rector shares with 
us.” 

All eyes were now turned on Mr. Poyser, who, with his 
hands still busy in his pockets, began with the deliberateness 
of a slow-striking clock. “Captain, my neighbours have put 
it upo’ me to speak for ’em to-day, for where folks think pretty 
much alike, one spokesman’s as good as a score. And though 
we’ve mayhappen got contrairy ways o’ thinking about a 
many things—one man lays down his land one way, an’ 
another another—an’ I’ll not take it upon me to speak to no 
man’s farming, but my own—this I’ll say, as we’re all o’ one 

283 


5 

10 

IS 

20 

25 


ADAM BEDE 


284 

mind about our young Squire. We’ve pretty nigh all on us 
known you when you war a little un, an’ we’ve niver known 
anything on you but what was good an’ honourable. You 
speak fair an’ y’ act fair, an’ we’re joyful when we look for- 
5 rard to your being our landlord, for we b’lieve you mean to do 
right by everybody, an’ ’ull make no man’s bread bitter to 
him if you can help it. That’s what I mean, an’ that’s what 
we all mean; and when a man’s said what he means, he’d bet¬ 
ter stop, for th’ ale ’ull be none the better for stannin’. An’ 
10 I’ll not say how we like th’ ale yet, for we couldna well taste it 
till we’d drunk your health in it; but the dinner was good, an’ 
if there’s anybody hasna enjoyed it, it must be the fault of his 
own inside. An’ as for the Rector’s company, it’s well known 
as that’s welcome t’ all the parish wherever he may be; an’ 
15 I hope, an’ we all hope, as he’ll live to see us old folks, an’ our 
children grown to men an’ women, an’ your honour a family 
man. I’ve no more to say as concerns the present time, an’ 
so we’ll drink our young Squire’s health—three times three.” 

Hereupon a glorious shouting, a rapping, a jingling, a clat- 
20 tering, and a shouting, with plentiful °da capo, pleasanter than 
a strain of sublimest music in the ears that receive such a 
tribute for the first time. Arthur had felt a twinge of con¬ 
science during Mr. Poyser’s speech, but it was too feeble to 
nullify the pleasure he felt in being praised. Did he not de- 
25 serve what was said of him on the whole? If there was some¬ 
thing in his conduct that Poyser wouldn’t have liked if he 
had known it, why no man’s conduct will bear too close an 
inspection; and Poyser was not likely to know it; and, after 
all, what had he done? Gone a little too far, perhaps, in flirta- 
30 tion, but another man in his place would have acted much 
worse; and no harm would come—no harm should come, for 
the next time he was alone with Hetty, he would explain to her 
that she must not think seriously of him or of what had pass¬ 
ed. It was necessary to Arthur, you perceive, to be satisfied 
35 with himself: uncomfortable thoughts must be got rid of by 
good intentions for the future, which can be formed so rapidly, 
that he had time to be uncomfortable and to become easy 


THE HEALTH DRINKING 285 

again before Mr. Poyser’s slow speech was finished, and when 
it was time for him to speak he was quite light-hearted. 

“I thank you all, my good friends and neighbours,” Arthur 
said, “for the good opinion of me, and the kind feelings to¬ 
wards me which Mr. Poyser has been expressing on your be- 5 
half and on his own, and it will always be my heartiest wish to 
deserve them. In the course of things we may expect that, if 
I live, I shall one day or other be your landlord; indeed it is 
on the ground of that expectation that my grandfather has 
wished me to celebrate this day and to come among you now; 10 
and I look forward to this position, not merely as one of 
power and pleasure for myself, but as a means of benefiting 
my neighbours. It hardly becomes so young a man as I am, 
to talk much about farming to you, who are most of you so 
much older, and are men of experience; still, I have interested 15 
myself a good deal in such matters, and learned as much about 
them as my opportunities have allowed; and when the course 
of events shall place the estate in my hands, it will be my first 
desire to afford my tenants all the encouragement a landlord 
can give them, in improving their land, and trying to bring 20 
about a better practice of husbandry. It will be my wish to be 
looked on by all my deserving tenants as their best friend, and 
nothing would make me so happy as to be able to respect every 
man on the estate, and to be respected by him in return. It 
is not my place at present to enter into particulars; I only 25 
meet your good hopes concerning me by telling you that my 
own hopes correspond to them—that what you expect from 
me I desire to fulfil; and I am quite of Mr. Poyser’s opinion, 
that when a man has said what he means, he had better stop. 
But the pleasure I feel in having my own health drunk by you 30 
would not be perfect if we did not drink the health of my 
grandfather, who has filled the place of both parents to me. 

I will say no more, until you have joined me in drinking his 
health on a day when he has wished me to appear among you 
as the future representative of his name and family.” 35 

Perhaps there was no one present except Mr. Irwine who 
thoroughly understood and approved Arthur’s graceful mode 


286 


ADAM BEDE 


of proposing his grandfather’s health. The farmers thought 
the young Squire knew well enough that they hated the old 
Squire, and Mrs. Poyser said, “he’d better not ha’ stirred a 
kettle o’ sour broth.” The bucolic mind does not readily ap- 
s prehend the refinements of good taste. But the toast could 
not be rejected, and when it had been drunk, Arthur said— 
“I thank you, both for my grandfather and myself; and 
now there is one more thing I wish to tell you, that you may 
share my pleasure about it, as I hope and believe you will. 
io I think there can be no man here who has not a respect, and 
some of you, I am sure, have a very high regard, for my friend 
Adam Bede. It is well known to every one in this neighbour¬ 
hood that there is no man whose word can be more depended 
on than his; that whatever he undertakes to do, he does well, 
15 and is as careful for the interests of those who employ him as 
for his own. I’m proud to say that I was very fond of Adam 
when I was a little boy, and I have never lost my old feeling 
for him—I think that shows that I know a good fellow when I 
find him. It has long been my wish that he should have the 
20 management of the woods on the estate, which happen to be 
very valuable; not only' because I think so highly of his 
character, but because he had the knowledge and the skill 
which fit him for the place. And I am happy to tell you that 
it is my grandfather’s wish too, and it is now settled that Adam 
25 shall manage the woods—a change which I am sure will be very 
much for the advantage of the estate; and I hope you will by- 
and-by join me in drinking his health, and in wishing him all 
the prosperity in life that he deserves. But there is a still older 
friend of mine than Adam Bede present, and I need not tell 
30 you that it is Mr. Irwine. I’m sure you will agree with me that 
we must drink no other person’s health until we have drunk 
his. I know you have all reason to love him, but no one of his 
parishioners has so much reason as I. Come, charge your 
glasses, and let us drink to our excellent Rector—three times 
35 three!” 

This toast was drunk with all the enthusiasm that was 
wanting to the last, and it certainly was the most picturesque 


THE HEALTH DRINKING 


287 


moment in the scene when Mr. Irwine got up to speak, and 
all the faces in the room were turned towards him. The 
superior refinement of his face was much more striking than 
that of Arthur’s when seen in comparison with the people 
round them. Arthur’s was a much commoner British face, 5 
and the splendour of his new-fashioned clothes was more akin 
to the young farmer’s ta^te in costume than Mr. Irwine’s 
powder, and the well-brushed but well-worn black, which 
seemed to be his chosen suit for great occasions; for he had the 
mysterious secret of never wearing a new-looking coat. 10 

‘‘This is not the first time, by a great many,” he said, “that 
I have had to thank my parishioners, for giving me tokens of 
their goodwill, but neighbourly kindness is among those things 
that are the more precious the older they get. Indeed, our 
pleasant meeting to-day is a proof that when what is good 15 
comes of age and is likely to live, there is reason for rejoicing, 
and the relation between us as clergyman and parishioners 
came of age two years ago, for it is three-and-twenty years 
since I first came among you, and I see some tall fine-looking 
young men here, as well as some blooming young women, that 20 
were far from looking as pleasantly at me when I christened 
them, as I am happy to see them looking now. But I’m sure 
you will not wonder when I say, that among all those young 
men, the one in whom I have the strongest interest is my 
friend Mr. Arthur Donnithorne, for whom you have just 25 
expressed your regard. I had the pleasure of being his tutor 
for several years, and have naturally had opportunities of 
knowing him intimately which cannot have occurred to any 
one else who is present; and I have some pride as well as pleas¬ 
ure in assuring you that I share your high hopes concerning 30 
him, and your confidence in his possession of those qualities 
which will make him an excellent landlord when the time shall 
come for him to take that important position among you. We 
feel alike on most matters on which a man who is getting to¬ 
wards fifty can feel in common with a young man of one-and- 35 
twenty, and he has just been expressing a feeling which I share 
very heartily, and I would not willingly omit the opportunity 


288 


ADAM BEDE 


of saying so. That feeling is his value and respect for Adam 
Bede. People in a high station are of course more thought of 
and talked about, and have their virtues more praised, than 
those whose lives are passed in humble everyday work; but 
5 every sensible man knows how necessary that humble every¬ 
day work is, and how important it is to us that it should be 
done well. And I agree with my friend Mr. Arthur Donni- 
thorne in feeling that when a man whose duty lies in that sort 
of work shows a character which would make him an example 
io in any station, his merit should be acknowledged. He is one 
of those to whom honour is due, and his friends should delight 
to honour him. I know Adam Bede well—I know what he is 
as a workman, and what he has been as a son and brother— 
and I am saying the simplest truth when I say that I respect 
is him as much as I respect any man living. But I am not speak¬ 
ing to you about a stranger; some of you are his intimate 
friends, and I believe there is not one here who does not know 
enough of him to join heartily in drinking his health.” 

As Mr. Irwine paused, Arthur jumped up, and, filling his 
20 glass, said, “A bumper to Adam Bede, and may he live to have 
sons as faithful and clever as himself!” 

No hearer, not even Bartle Massey, was so delighted with 
this toast as Mr. Poyser: “tough work” as his first speech 
had been, he would have started up to make another if he had 
25 not known the extreme irregularity of such a course. As it 
was, he found an outlet for his feeling in drinking his ale un¬ 
usually fast, and setting down his glass with a swing of his 
arm and a determined rap. If Jonathan Burge and a few 
others felt less comfortable on the occasion, they tried their 
30 best to look contented, and so the toast was drunk with a 
goodwill apparently unanimous. 

Adam was rather paler than usual when he got up to thank 
his friends. He was a good deal moved by this public tribute— 
very naturally, for he was in the presence of all his little world, 
35 and it was uniting to do him honour. But he felt no shyness 
about speaking, not being troubled with small vanity or lack 
of words; he looked neither awkward nor embarrassed, but 


THE HEALTH DRINKING 


285 


stood in his usual firm upright attitude, with his head thrown 
a little backward and his hands perfectly still, in that rough 
dignity which is peculiar to intelligent, honest,- well-built 
workmen, who are never wondering what is their business in 
the world. 5 

“I’m quite taken by surprise/’ he said. “I didn’t expect 
anything o’ this sort, for it’s a good deal more than my wages. 
But I’ve the more reason to be grateful to you, Captain, and 
to you, Mr. Irwine, and to all my friends here, who’ve drunk 
my health and wished me well. It ’ud be nonsense for me to be io 
saying, I don’t at all deserve th’ opinion you have of me; that 
’ud be poor thanks to you, to say that you’ve known me all 
these years, and yet haven’t sense enough to find out a 
great deal o’ the truth about me. You think, if I undertake to 
do a bit o’ work, I’ll do it well, be my pay big or little—and 15 
that’s true. I’d be ashamed to stand before you here if it 
wasna true. But it seems to me, that’s a man’s plain duty, 
and nothing to be conceited about, and it’s pretty clear to me 
as I’ve never done more than my duty; for let us do what we 
will, it’s only making use o’ the sperrit and the powers that 20 
ha’ been given to us. And so this kindness o’ yours, I’m sure, 
is no debt you owe me, but a free gift, and as such I accept it 
and am thankful. And as to this new employment I’ve taken 
in hand, I’ll only say that I took it at Captain Donnithorne’s 
desire, and that I’ll try to fulfil his expectations. I’d wish for 25 
no better lot than to work under him, and to know that while 
I was getting my own bread I was taking care of his int’rests. 
For I believe he’s one o’ those gentlemen as wishes to do the 
right thing, and to leave the world a bit better than he found it, 
which it’s my belief every man may do, whether he’s gentle30 
or simple, whether he sets a good bit o’ work going and finds 
the money, or whether he does the work with his own hands. 
There’s no occasion for me to say any more about what I feel 
towards him: I hope to show it through the rest o’ my life in 
my actions.” 35 

There were various opinions about Adam’s speech: some 
of the women whispered that he didn’t show himself thankful 


ADAM BEDE 


290 

enough, and seemed to speak as proud as could be; but most 
of the men were of opinion that nobody could speak more 
straightfor’ard, and that Adam was as fine a chap as need to 
be. While such observations were being buzzed about, 
s mingled with wonderings as to what the old Squire meant to 
do for a bailiff, and whether he was going to have a steward, 
the two gentlemen had risen, and were walking round to the 
table where the wives and children sat. There was none of the 
strong ale here, of course, but wine and dessert—sparkling 
10 gooseberry for the young ones, and some good sherry for the 
mothers. Mrs. Poyser was at the head of this table, and Totty 
was now seated in her lap, bending her small nose deep down 

into a wine-glass in search of the nuts floating there. 

“How do you do, Mrs. Poyser?” said Arthur. Weren t 
15 you pleased to hear your husband make such a good speech 

to-day?” » c a 

“Oh, sir, the men are mostly so tongue-tied—you re forced 
partly to guess what they mean, as you do wi’ the dumb 
creaturs.” 

20 “What! you think you could have made it better for himr 
said Mr. Irwine, laughing. 

“Well, sir, when I want to say anything, I can mostly find 
words to say it in, thank God. Not as I’m a-finding faut wi 
my husband, for if he’s a man o’ few words, what he says 
2 S he’ll stand to.” . . 

“ I’m sure I never saw a prettier party than this, Arthur 
said, looking round at the apple-cheeked children. My 
aunt and the Miss Irwines will come up and see you presently. 
They are afraid of the noise of the toasts, but it would be a 
30 shame for them not to see you at table.” 

He walked on, speaking to the mothers and patting the 
children, while Mr. Irwine satisfied himself with standing still, 
and nodding at a distance, that no one’s attention might be 
disturbed from the young Squire, the hero of the day. Arthur 
35 did not venture to stop near Hetty, but merely bowed to her 
as he passed along the opposite side. The foolish child felt 
her heart swelling with discontent; for what woman was ever 



THE HEALTH DRINKING 


291 


satisfied with apparent neglect, even when she knows it to be 
the mask of love? Hetty thought this was going to be the 
most miserable day she had had for a long while; a moment 
of chill daylight and reality came across her dream: Arthur, 
who had seemed so near to her only a few hours before, was 5 
separated from her, as the hero of a great procession is sepa¬ 
rated from a small outsider in the crowd. 


CHAPTER XXV 


THE GAMES 

The great dance was not to begin until eight o’clock; but 
for any lads and lasses who liked to dance on the shady grass 
before then, there was music always at hand; for was not 
the band of the Benefit Club capable of playing excellent 
sjigs, reels, and hornpipes? And, besides this, there was a 
grand band hired from Rosseter, who, with their wonderful 
wind-instruments and puffed-out cheeks, were themselves a 
delightful show to the small boys and girls, to say nothing 
of Joshua Rann’s fiddle, which, by an act of generous fore- 
io thought, he had provided himself with, in case any one should 
be of sufficiently pure taste to prefer dancing to a solo on that 
instrument. 

Meantime, when the sun had moved off the great open space 
in front of the house, the games began. There were of course 
is well-soaped poles to be climbed by the boys and youths, races 
to be run by the old women, races to be run in sacks, heavy 
weights to be lifted by the strong men, and a long list of 
challenges to such ambitious attempts as that of walking as 
many yards as possible on one leg—feats in which it was gen- 
20 erally remarked that Wiry Ben, being “the lissom’st, spring- 
est fellow i’ the country,” was sure to be pre-eminent. To 
crown all, there was to be a donkey-race—that sublimest of all 
races, conducted on the grand socialistic idea of everybody en¬ 
couraging everybody else’s donkey, and the sorriest donkey 
25 winning. 

And soon after four o’clock, splendid old Mrs. Irwine, in 
her damask satin and jewels and black lace, was led out by 
Arthur, followed by the whole family party, to her raised seat 
under the striped marquee, where she was to give the prizes 

292 


THE GAMES 


293 


to the victors. Staid, formal Miss Lydia had requested to re¬ 
sign that queenly office to the royal old lady, and Arthur was 
pleased with this opportunity of gratifying his godmother’s 
taste for stateliness. Old Mr. Donnithorne, the delicately- 
clean, finely-scented, withered old man, led out Miss Irwine, 5 
with his air of punctilious, acid politeness; Mr. Gawaine 
brought Miss Lydia, looking neutral and stiff in an elegant 
peach-blossom silk; and Mr. Irwine came last with his pale 
sister Anne. No other friend of the family, besides Mr. Ga- 
waine, was invited to-day; there was to be a grand dinner 10 
for the neighbouring gentry on the morrow, but to-day all 
the forces were required for the entertainment of the tenants. 

There was a sunk fence in front of the marquee, dividing 
the lawn from the park, but a temporary bridge had been 
made for the passage of the victors, and the groups of people 15 
standing, or seated here and there on benches, stretched on 
each side of the open space from the white marquees up to the 
sunk fence. 

“Upon my word it’s a pretty sight,” said the old lady, in 
her deep voice, when she was seated, and looked round on the 20 
bright scene with its dark-green background; “and it’s the 
last fete-day I’m likely to see, unless you make haste and get 
married, Arthur. But take care you get a charming bride, 
else I would rather die without seeing her.” 

“You’re so terribly fastidious, godmother,” said Arthur, 25 
“I’m afraid I should never satisfy you with my choice.” 

“Well, I won’t forgive you if she’s not handsome. I can’t 
be put off with amiability, which is always the excuse people 
are making for the existence of plain people. And she must 
be silly; that will never do, because you’ll want managing, 30 
and a silly women can’t manage you. Who is that tall young 
man, Dauphin, with the mild face? There, standing without 
his hat, and taking such care of that tall old woman by the 
side of him—his mother, of course. I like to see that.” 

“What, don’t you know him, mother?” said Mr. Irwine. 35 
“That is Seth Bede, Adam’s brother—a Methodist, but a very 
good fellow. Poor Seth has looked rather down-hearted of 


294 


ADAM BEDE 


late; I thought it was because of his father s dying in that 
sad wav. but Joshua Rann tells me he wanted to marry that 
sweet little Methodist preacher who, was here about a month 
ago, and I suppose she refused him. 

5 “Ah, I remember hearing about her: but there are no end 
of people here that I don’t know, for they’re grown up and 
altered so since I used to go about.’’ , ^ • 

“What excellent sight you have! said old Mr. Donn - 
thorne, who was holding a double glass up to his eyes, to 
io see the expression of that young man s face so far oh. tlis 
face is nothing but a pale blurred spot to me. But i fancy I 
have the advantage of you when we come to look close. 1 can 
read small print without spectacles.” . , , 

“Ah, my dear sir, you began with being very near-sighted, 
i 5 and those near-sighted eyes always wear the best. I want very 
strong spectacles to read with, but then I think my eyes get 
better and better for things at a distance. I suppose if I 
could live another fifty years, I should be blind to everything 
that wasn’t out of other people’s sight, like a man who stands 
20 in a well, and sees nothing but the stars. ’ 

“See,” said Arthur, “the old women are ready to set out 
on their race now. Which do you bet on, Gawame?” 

“The long-legged one, unless they’re going^to have several 
heats, and then the little wiry one may win.” 

25 “There are the Poysers, mother, not far off on the right 
hand,” said Miss Irwine. “Mrs. Poyser is looking at you. Do 
take notice of her.” 

“To be sure I will,” said the old lady, giving a gracious 
bow to Mrs. Poyser. “A woman who sends me such excellent 
3 o cream-cheese is not to be neglected. Bless me! what a fat 
child that is she is holding on her knee! But who is that pretty 
girl with dark eyes?” T . 

“That is Hetty Sorrel,” said Miss Lydia Donmthorne, 
“Martin Poyser’s niece— a very likely young person, and well- 
35 looking too. My maid has taught her fine needlework, and 
she has mended some lace of mine very respectably indeed— 
very respectably.” 


THE GAMES 


295 

“Why, she has lived with the Poysers six or seven years, 
mother; you must have seen her,” said Miss Irwine. 

“No, I’ve never seen her, child; at least not as she is now,” 
said Mrs. Irwine, continuing to look at Hetty. “Well-look¬ 
ing, indeed! She’s a perfect beauty! I’ve never seen any-5 
thing so pretty since my young days. What a pity such 
beauty as that should be thrown away among the farmers, 
when it’s wanted so terribly among the good families without 
fortune! I daresay, now, she’ll marry a man who would have 
thought her just as pretty if she had had round eyes and red 10 
hair.” 

Arthur dared not turn his eyes towards Hetty while Mrs. 
Irwine was speaking of her. He feigned not to hear, and to be 
occupied with something on the opposite side. But he saw 
her plainly enough without looking; saw her in heightened 15 
beauty, because he heard her beauty praised—for other men’s 
opinion, you know, was like a native climate to Arthur’s feel¬ 
ings: it was the air on which they thrived the best, and grew 
strong. Yes! she was enough to turn any man’s head: any 
man in his place would have done and felt the same. And to 20 
give her up after all, as he was determined to do, would be an 
act that he should always look back upon with pride. 

“No, mother,” said Mr. Irwine, replying to her last words; 

“ I can’t agree with you there. The common people are not 
quite so stupid as you imagine. The commonest man, who 25 
has his ounce of sense and feeling, is conscious of the difference 
between a lovely, delicate woman, and a coarse one. Even a 
dog feels a difference in their presence. The man may be no 
better able than the dog to explain the influence the more re¬ 
fined beauty has on him, but he feels it.” 30 

“Bless me, Dauphin, what does an old bachelor like you 
know about it?” 

“Oh, that is one of the matters in which old bachelors are 
wiser than married men, because they have time for more gen¬ 
eral contemplation. Your fine critic of women must never 35 
shackle his judgment by calling one woman his own. But, 
as an example of what I was saying, that pretty Methodist 


ADAM BEDE 


296 

preacher I mentioned just now, told me that she had preached 
to the roughest miners, and had never been treated with any¬ 
thing but the utmost respect and kindness by them. The 
reason is—though she doesn’t know it—that there’s so much 
s tenderness, refinement, and purity about her. Such a woman 
as that brings with her ‘airs from heaven’ that the coarsest 
fellow is not insensible to.” 

“Here’s a delicate bit of womanhood or girlhood, coming to 
receive a prize, I suppose,” said Mr. Gawaine. “She must 
10 be one of the racers in the sacks, who had set off before we 
came.” 

The “ bit of womanhood” was our old acquaintance Bessy 
Cranage, otherwise Chad’s Bess, whose large red cheeks and 
blowsy person had undergone an exaggeration of colour, 
15 which, if she had happened to be a heavenly body, would have 
made her sublime. Bessy, I am sorry to say, had taken to her 
earrings again since Dinah’s departure, and was otherwise 
decked out in such small finery as she could muster. Any one 
who could have looked into poor Bessy’s heart would have 
20 seen a striking resemblance between her little hopes and 
anxieties and Hetty’s. The advantage, perhaps, would have 
been on Bessy’s side in the matter of feeling. But then, you 
see, they were so very different outside! You would have 
been inclined to box Bessy’s ears, and you would have longed 
25 to kiss Hetty. 

Bessy had been tempted to run the arduous race, partly 
from mere hoidenish gaiety, partly because of the prize. 
Some one had said there were to be cloaks and other nice 
clothes for prizes, and she approached the marquee, fanning 
30 herself with her handkerchief, but with exultation sparkling 
in her round eyes. 

“Here is the prize for the first sack-race,” said Miss Lydia, 
taking a large parcel from the table where the prizes were laid, 
and giving it to Mrs. Irwine before Bessy came up; “an ex- 
35 cellent grogram gown and a piece of flannel.” 

“You didn’t think the winner was to be so young, I sup¬ 
pose, aunt?” said Arthur. “Couldn’t you find something else 


THE GAMES 


29 7 


for this girl, and save that grim-looking gown for one of the 
older women?” 

“ I have bought nothing but what is useful and substantial,” 
said Miss Lydia, adjusting her own lace; “I should not think 
of encouraging a love of finery in young women of that class. I 5 
have a scarlet cloak, but that is for the old woman who wins.” 

This speech of Miss Lydia’s produced rather a mocking ex¬ 
pression in Mrs. Irwine’s face as she looked at Arthur, while 
Bessy came up and dropped a series of curtsies. 

“This is Bessy Cranage, mother,” said Mr. Irwine, kindly, 10 
“Chad Cranage’s daughter. You remember Chad Cranage, 
the blacksmith?” 

“Yes, to be sure,” said Mrs. Irwine. “Well, Bessy, here 
is your prize—excellent warm things for winter. I’m sure you 
have had hard work to win them this warm day.” 15 

Bessy’s lip fell as she saw the ugly, heavy gown,—which felt 
so hot and disagreeable, too, on this July day, and was such a 
great ugly thing to carry. She dropped her curtsies again, 
without looking up, and with a growing tremulousness about 
the corners of her mouth, and then turned away. 20 

“Poor girl,” said Arthur; “I think she’s disappointed. I 
wish it had been something more to her taste.” 

“She’s a bold-looking young person,” observed Miss 
Lydia. “Not at all one I should like to encourage.” 

Arthur silently resolved that he would make Bessy a present 25 
of money before the day was over, that she might buy some¬ 
thing more to her mind; but she, not aware of the consolation 
in store for her, turned out of the open space, where she was 
visible from the marquee, and throwing down the odious 
bundle under a tree, began to cry—very much tittered at the 30 
while by the small boys. In this situation she was descried 
by her discreet matronly cousin, who lost no time in coming 
up, having just given the baby into her husband’s charge. 

“What’s the matter wi’ ye?” said Bess the matron, taking 
up the bundle and examining it. “Ye’n sweltered yoursen, I 35 
reckon, running that fool’s race. An’ here, they’n gi’en you 
lots o’ good grogram and flannel, as should ha’ been gi’en by 


ADAM BEDE 


298 

good rights to them as had the sense to keep away from such 
foolery. Ye might spare me a bit o’ this grogram to make 
clothes for the lad—ye war ne’er ill-natured, Bess; I ne er said 

that on ye.” T „ , ., 

s “Ye may take it all, for what I care, said Bess the maiden, 
with a pettish movement, beginning to wipe away her tears 
and recover herself. , „ 

“Well, I could do wi’t, if so be ye want to get rid on t, 
said the disinterested cousin, walking quickly away with the 
xo bundle, lest Chad’s Bess should change her mind. 

But that bonny-cheeked lass was blessed with an elasticity 
of spirits that secured her from any rankling grief; and by the 
time the grand climax of the donkey -race came on, her dis¬ 
appointment was entirely lost in the delightful excitement of 
is attempting to stimulate the last donkey by hisses, while the 
boys applied the argument of sticks. But the strength of the 
donkey mind lies in adopting a course inversely as the argu¬ 
ments urged, which, well considered, requires as great a mental 
force as the direct sequence; and the present donkey proved 
20 the first-rate order of his intelligence by coming to a dead 
standstill just when the blows were thickest. Great was the 
shouting of the crowd, radiant the grinning of Bill Downes 
the stone-sawyer and the fortunate rider of this superior beast, 
which stood calm and stiff-legged in the midst of its triumph. 
25 Arthur himself had provided the prizes for the men, and 
Bill was made happy with a splendid pocket-knife, supplied 
with blades and gimlets -enough to make a man at home on a 
desert island. He had hardly returned from the marquee with 
with the prize in his hand, when it began to be understood 
30 that Wiry Ben proposed to amuse the company, before the 
gentry went to dinner, with an impromptu and gratuitous 
performance—namely, a hornpipe, the main idea of which 
was doubtless borrowed; but this was to be developed by the 
dancer in so peculiar and complex a manner that no one could 
35 deny him the praise of originality. 

Wiry Ben’s pride in his dancing—an accomplishment pro¬ 
ductive of great effect at the yearly Wake—had needed only 


THE GAMES 


299 

slightly elevating by an extra quantity of good ale, to con¬ 
vince him that the gentry would be very much struck with his 
performance of the hornpipe; and he had been decidedly 
encouraged in this idea by Joshua Rann, who observed that 
it was nothing but right to do something to please the young 5 
Squire, in return for what he had done for them. You will 
be the less surprised at this opinion in so grave a personage 
when you learn that Ben had requested Mr. Rann to accom¬ 
pany him on the fiddle, and Joshua felt quite sure that though 
there might not be much in the dancing, the music would 10 
make up for it. Adam Bede, who was present in one of the 
large marquees, where the plan was being discussed, told Ben 
he had better not make a fool of himself—a remark which at 
once fixed Ben’s determination: he was not going to let any¬ 
thing alone because Adam Bede turned up his nose at it. 15 

“What’s this, what’s this?” said old Mr. Donnithorne. 
“Is it something you’ve arranged, Arthur? Here’s the clerk 
coming with his fiddle, and a smart fellow with a nosegay in 
his button-hole.” 

“No,” said Arthur; “I know nothing about it. By Jove, 20 
he’s going to dance! It’s one of the carpenters—I forget his 
name at this moment.” 

“It’s Ben Cranage—Wiry Ben, they call him,” said Mr. 
Irwine; “rather a loose fish, I think. Anne, my dear, I see 
that fiddle-scraping is too much for you: you’re getting tired. 25 
Let me take you in now, that you may rest till dinner.” 

Miss Anne rose assentingly, and the good brother took her 
away, while Joshua’s preliminary scrapings burst into the 
°“ White Cockade,” from which he intended to pass to a variety 
of tunes, by a series of transitions which his good ear really 30 
taught him to execute with some skill. It would have been 
an exasperating fact to him, if he had known it, that the gen¬ 
eral attention was too thoroughly absorbed by Ben’s dancing 
for any one to give much heed to the music. 

Have you ever seen a real English rustic perform a solo 35 
dance? Perhaps you have only seen a ballet rustic, smiling 
like a merry countryman in crockery, with graceful turns of 




ADAM BEDE 


300 

the haunch and insinuating movements of the head. That is 
as much like the real thing as the “ Bird Waltz” is like the 
song of birds. Wiry Ben never smiled: he looked as serious 
as a dancing monkey—as serious as if he had been an experi- 
5 mental philosopher ascertaining in his own person the amount 
of shaking and the varieties of angularity that could be given 
to the human limbs. . . 

To make amends for the abundant laughter in the striped 
marquee, Arthur clapped his hands continually and cried 
10 “ Bravo!” But Ben had one admirer whose eyes followed his 
movements with a fervid gravity that equalled his own. It 
was Martin Poyser, who was seated on a bench, with Tommy 
between his legs. 

“What dost think o’ that?” he said to his wife. “He goes 
15 as pat to the music as if he was made o’ clockwork. I used 
to be a pretty good un at dancing myself when I wasTighter, 
but I could niver ha’ hit it just to th’ hair like that. ^ 

“It’s little matter what his limbs are, to my thinking,” 
returned Mrs. Poyser. “He’s empty enough ^ the upper 
20 story, or he’d niver come jigging an’ stamping i’ that way, 
like a mad grasshoppper, for the gentry to look at him. 
They’re fit to die wi’ laughing, I can see.” 

“Well, well, so much the better, it amuses ’em,” said Mr. 
Poyser, who did not easily take an irritable view of things. 
25 “But they’re going away now, t’ have their dinner, I reckon. 
We’ll move about a bit, shall we? and see what Adam Bede’s 
doing. He’s got to look after the drinking and things: I 
doubt he hasna had much fun.” 


CHAPTER XXVI 


THE DANCE 

Arthur had chosen the entrance-hall for the ball-room: very 
wisely, for no other room could have been so airy, or would 
have had the advantage of the wide doors opening into the 
garden, as well as a ready entrance into the other rooms. To 
be sure, a stone floor was not the pleasantest to dance on, 5 
but then, most of the dancers had known what it was to enjoy 
a Christmas dance on kitchen quarries. It was one of those 
entrance-halls which make the surrounding rooms look like 
closets—with stucco angels, trumpets, and flower-wreaths on 
the lofty ceiling, and great medallions of miscellaneous heroes 10 
on the walls, alternating with statues in niches. Just the sort 
of place to be ornamented well with green boughs, and Mr. 
Craig had been proud to show his taste and his hothouse 
plants on the occasion. The broad steps of the stone stair¬ 
case were covered with cushions to serve as seats for the chil- 15 
dren, who were to stay till half-past nine with the servant- 
maids, to see the dancing; and as this dance was confined to 
the chief tenants, there was abundant room for every one. 
The lights were charmingly disposed in coloured-paper lamps, 
high up among green boughs, and the farmers’ wives and 20 
daughters, as they peeped in, believed no scene could be more 
splendid; they knew now quite well in what sort of rooms the 
king and queen lived, and their thoughts glanced with some 
pity towards cousins and acquaintances who had not this 
fine opportunity of knowing how things went on in the great 23 
world. The lamps were already lit, though the sun had not 
long set, and there was that calm light out of doors in which 
we seem to see all objects more distinctly than in the broad 
day. 


301 


302 


ADAM BEDE 


It was a pretty scene outside the house: the farmers and 
their families were moving about the lawn, among the flowers 
and shrubs, or along the broad straight road leading from the 
east front, where a carpet of mossy grass spread on each side, 
S studded here and there with a dark flat-boughed cedar, or a 
grand pyramidal fir sweeping the ground with its branches, 
all tipped with a fringe of paler green. The groups of cottagers 
in the park were gradually diminishing, the young ones being 
attracted towards the lights that were beginning to gleam 
io from the windows of the gallery in the abbey, which was to be 
their dancing-room, and some of the sober elder ones thinking 
it time to go home quietly. One of these was Lisbeth Bede, 
and Seth went with her—not from filial attention only, for 
°his conscience would not let him join in dancing. It had been 
15 rather a melancholy day to Seth: Dinah had never been 
more constantly present with him than in this scene, where 
everything was so unlike her. He saw her all the more vividly 
after looking at the thoughtless faces and gay-coloured 
dresses of the young women—just as one feels the beauty and 
20 the greatness of a pictured Madonna the more, when it has 
been for a moment screened from us by a vulgar head in a 
bonnet. But this presence of Dinah in his mind only helped 
him to bear the better with his mother’s mood, which had 
been becoming more and more querulous for the last hour. 
25 Poor Lisbeth was suffering from a strange conflict of feelings. 
Her joy and pride in the honour paid to her darling son Adam 
was beginning to be worsted in the conflict with the jealousy 
and fretfulness which had revived when Adam came to tell 
her that Captain Donnithorne desired him to join the dancers 
30 in the hall. Adam was getting more and more out of her 
reach; she wished all the old troubles back again, for then it 
mattered more to Adam what his mother said and did. 

“Eh, it’s fine talkin’ o’ dancin’,” she said, “an’ thy father 
not a five week in’s grave. An’ I wish I war there too, istid o’ 
35 bein’ left to take up merrier folks’s room above ground.” 

“Nay, don’t look at it i’ that way, mother,” said Adam, 
who was determined to be gentle to her to-day. “I don’t 


THE DANCE 


3°3 


mean to dance—I shall only look on. And since the Captain 
wishes me to be there, it ’ud look as if I thought I knew better 
than him to say as I’d rather not stay. And thee know’st 
how he’s behaved to me to-day.” 

“Eh, thee’t do as thee lik’st, for thy old mother’s got no5 
right t’ hinder thee. She’s nought but th’ old husk, and thee’st 
slipped away from her, like the ripe nut.” 

“Well, mother,” said Adam, “I’ll go and tell the Captain 
as it hurts thy feelings for me to stay, and I’d rather go home 
upo’ that account: he won’t take it ill then, I daresay, and I’m ic 
willing.” He said this with some effort, for he really longed 
to be near Hetty this evening. 

“Nay, nay, I wonna ha’ thee do that—the young Squire 
’ull be angered. Go an’ do what thee’t ordered to do, an’ me 
and Seth ’ull go home. I know it’s a grit honour for thee to 15 
be so looked on—an’ who’s to be prouder on it nor thy 
mother? Hadna she the cumber o’ rearin’ thee an’ doin’ for 
thee all these ’ears?” 

“Well, good-bye, then, mother—good-bye, lad—remember 
Gyp when you get home,” said Adam, turning away towards 2© 
the gate of the pleasure-grounds, where he hoped he might 
be able to join the Poysers, for he had been so occupied 
throughout the afternoon that he had had no time to speak 
to Hetty. His eye soon detected a distant group, which he 
knew to be the right one, returning to the house along the 25 
broad gravel road, and he hastened on to meet them. 

“Why, Adam, I’m glad to get sight on y’ again,” said Mr. 
Poyser, who was carrying Totty on his arm. “You’re going 
t’ have a bit o’ fun, I hope, now your work’s all done. And 
here’s Hetty has promised no end o’ partners, an’ I’ve just3c 
been askin’ her if she’d agreed to dance wi’ you, an’ she says 
no.” 

“Well, I didn’t think o’ dancing to-night,” said Adam, 
already tempted to change his mind, as he looked at Hetty. 

“Nonsense!” said Mr. Poyser. “Why, everybody’s goin’ 35 
to dance to-night, all but th’ old Squire and Mrs. Irwine. Mrs. 
Best’s been tellin’ us as Miss Lyddy and Miss Irwine ’ull 


ADAM BEDE 


304 

dance, an’ the young Squire ’uli pick my wife for his first 
partner, t’ open the ball: so she’ll be forced to dance, though 
she’s laid by ever sin’ the Christmas afore the little un was 
born. You canna for shame stand still, Adam, an’ you a fine 
5 young fellow, and can dance as well as anybody.” 

“Nay, nay,” said Mrs. Poyser, “it ’ud be unbecoming I 
know the dancin’s nonsense; but if you stick at everything 
because it’s nonsense, you wonna go far i’ this life. When 
your broth’s ready-made for you, you inun swallow the thick- 
10 enin’, or else let the broth alone.” 

“Then if Hetty ’ull dance with me,” said Adam, yielding 
either to Mrs. Poyser’s argument or to something else, “I’ll 
dance whichever dance she’s free.” 

“I’ve got no partner for the fourth dance,” said Hetty; 
is “I’ll dance that with you, if you like.” 

“Ah,” said Mr. Poyser, “but you mun dance the first 
dance, Adam, else it’ll look partic’ler. There’s plenty o’ nice 
partners to pick an’ choose from, an’ it’s hard for the gells 
when the men stan’ by and don’t ask ’em.” 

10 Adam felt the justice of Mr. Poyser’s observation: it 
would not do for him to dance with no one besides Hetty; 
and remembering that Jonathan Burge had some reason to 
feel hurt to-day, he resolved to ask Miss Mary to dance with 
him the first dance, if she had no other partner. 

25 “There’s the big clock strikin’ eight,” said Mr. Poyser; 
“we must make haste in now, else the Squire and the ladies 
’ull be in afore us, an’ that wouldna look well.” 

When they had entered the hall, and the three children 
under Molly’s charge had been seated on the stairs, the fold- 
30 ing-doors of the drawing-room were thrown open, and Arthur 
entered in his regimentals, leading Mrs. Irwine to a carpet- 
covered dais ornamented with hothouse plants, where she 
and Miss Anne were to be seated with old Mr. Donnithorne, 
that they might look on at the dancing, like the kings and 
35 queens in the plays. Arthur had put on his uniform to please 
the tenants, he said, who thought as much of his militia dig¬ 
nity as if it had been an elevation to the premiership. He 


THE DANCE 


305 


had not the least objection to gratify them in that way: his 
uniform was very advantageous to his figure. 

1 he old Squire, before sitting down, walked around the 
hall to greet the tenants and make polite speeches to the 
wives: he was always polite; but the farmers had found out, 5 
after long puzzling, that this polish was one of the signs of 
hardness. It was observed that he gave his most elaborate 
civility to Mrs. Poyser to-night, inquiring particularly about 
her health, recommending her to strengthen herself with cold 
water as he did, and avoid all drugs. Mrs. Poyser curtsied 10 
and thanked him with great self-command, but when he had 
passed on, she whispered to her husband, “I’ll lay my life 
he’s brewin’ some nasty turn against us. Old Harry doesna 
wag his tail so for nothin’.” Mr. Poyser had no time to an¬ 
swer, for now Arthur came up and said, “Mrs. Poyser, I’m 15 
come to request the favour of your hand for the first dance; 
and, Mr. Poyser, you must let me take you to my aunt, for 
she claims you as her partner.” 

The wife’s pale cheek flushed with a nervous sense of un¬ 
wonted honour as Arthur led her to the top of the room; but 20 
Mr. Poyser, to whom an extra glass had restored his youthful 
confidence in his good looks and good dancing, walked along 
with them quite proudly, secretly flattering himself that Miss 
Lydia had never had a partner in her life who could lift her 
off the ground as he would. In order to balance the honours 25 
given to the two parishes, Miss Irwine danced with Luke Brit¬ 
ton, the largest Broxton farmer, and Mr. Gawaine led out 
Mrs. Britton. Mr. Irwine, after seating his sister Anne, had 
gone to the abbey gallery, as he had agreed with Arthur be¬ 
forehand, to see how the merriment of the cottagers was pros- 30 
pering. Meanwhile, all the less distinguished couples had 
taken their places: Hetty was led out by the inevitable Mr. 
Craig, and Mary Burge by Adam; and now the music struck 
up, and the glorious country-dance, best of all dances, began. 

Pity it was not a boarded floor! Then the rhythmic stamp- 35 
ing of the thick shoes would have been better than any drums. 
That merry stamping, that gracious nodding of his head, that 


3°6 


ADAM BEDE 


waving bestowal of the hand—where can we see them now? 
That simple dancing of well-covered matrons, laying aside 
for an hour the cares of house and dairy, remembering but 
not affecting youth, not jealous but proud of the young maid- 
sens by their side—that holiday sprightliness of portly hus¬ 
bands paying little compliments to their wives, as if their 
courting days were come again—those lads and lasses a little 
confused and awkward with their partners, having nothing to 
say—it would be a pleasant variety to see all that sometimes, 
io instead of low dresses and large skirts, and scanning glances 
exploring costumes, and languid men in lackered boots smiling 
with double meaning. 

There was but one thing to mar Martin Poyser’s pleasure 
in this dance: it was, that he was always in close contact with 
is Luke Britton, that slovenly farmer. He thought of throwing 
a little glazed coldness into his eye in the crossing of hands; 
but then, as Miss Irwine was opposite to him instead of the 
offensive Luke, he might freeze the wrong person. So he 
gave his face up to hilarity, unchilled by moral judgments. 

20 How Hetty’s heart beat as Arthur approached her! He 
had hardly looked at her to-day : now he must take her hand. 
Would he press it? would he look at her? She thought she 
would cry if he gave her no sign of feeling. Now he was there 
—he had taken her hand—yes, he was pressing it. Hetty 
as turned pale as she looked up at him for an instant and met 
his eyes, before the dance carried him away. That pale look 
came upon Arthur like the beginning of a dull pain, which 
clung to him, though he must dance and smile and joke all the 
same. Hetty would look so, when he told her what he had to 
3 o tell her; and he should never be able to bear it—he should be 
a fool and give way again. Hetty’s look did not really mean 
so much as he thought: it was only the sign of a struggle 
between the desire for him to notice her, and the dread lest she 
should betray the desire to others. But Hetty’s face had a 
35 language that transcended her feelings. There are faces 
which nature charges with a meaning and pathos not belong¬ 
ing to the single human soul that flutters beneath them, but 



THE DANCE 


307 


speaking the joys and sorrows of foregone generations—eyes 
that tell of deep love which doubtless has been and is some¬ 
where, but not paired with these eyes—perhaps paired with 
pale eyes that can say nothing; just as a national language 
may be instinct with poetry unfelt by the lips that use it. 5 
That look of Hetty’s oppressed Arthur with a dread which yet 
had something of a terrible unconfessed delight in it, that she 
loved him too well. There was a hard task before him, for at 
that moment he felt he would have given up three years of 
his youth for the happiness of abandoning himself without 10 
remorse to his passion for Hetty. 

These were the incongruous thoughts in his mind as he led 
Mrs. Poyser, who was panting with fatigue, and secretly 
resolving that neither judge nor jury should force her to 
dance another dance, to take a quiet rest in the dining-room, 15 
where supper was laid out for the guests to come and take it 
as they chose. 

“I’ve desired Hetty to remember as she’s got to dance wi’ 
you, sir,” said the good innocent woman; “for she’s so 
thoughtless, she’d be like enough to go an’ engage herself for 20 
ivery dance. So I told her not to promise too many.” 

“Thank you, Mrs. Poyser,” said Arthur, not without a 
twinge. “Now, sit down in this comfortable chair, and here 
is Mills ready to give you what you would like best.” 

He hurried away to seek another matronly partner, for due 25 
honour must be paid to the married women before he asked 
any of the young ones; and the country-dances, and the 
stamping, and the gracious nodding, and the waving of the 
hands, went on joyously. 

At last the time had come for the fourth dance—longed for 30 
by the strong, grave Adam, as if he had been a delicate-handed 
youth of eighteen; for we are all very much alike when we are 
in our first love; and Adam had hardly ever touched Hetty’s 
hand for more than a transient greeting—had never danced 
with her but once before. His eyes had followed her eagerly 3* 
to-night in spite of himself, and had taken in deeper draughts 
of love. He thought she behaved so prettily, so quietly; she 


ADAM BEDE 


308 

did not seem to be flirting at all, she smiled less than usual; 
there was almost a sweet sadness about her. “God bless her!” 
he said inwardly; “ I’d make her life a happy ’un, if a strong 
arm to work for her, and a heart to love her, could do it.” 

5 And then there stole over him delicious thoughts of coming 
home from work, and drawing Hetty to his side, and feeling 
her cheek softly pressed against his, till he forgot where he 
was, and the music and the tread of feet might have been the 
falling of rain and the roaring of the wind, for what he knew. 
10 But now the third dance was ended, and he might go up 
to her and claim her hand. She was at the far end of the hall 
near the staircase, whispering with Molly, who had just given 
the sleeping Totty into her arms, before running to fetch 
shawls and bonnets from the landing. Mrs. Poyser had taken 
15 the two boys away into the dining-room to give them some 
cake before they went home in the cart with grandfather, 
and Molly was to follow as fast as possible. 

“Let me hold her,” said Adam, as Molly turned upstairs*, 
“the children are so heavy when they’re asleep.” 

20 Hetty was glad of the relief, for to hold Totty in her arms, 
standing, was not at all a pleasant variety to her. But this 
second transfer had the unfortunate effect of rousing Totty, 
who was not behind any child of her age in peevishness at an 
unseasonable awaking. While Hetty was in the act of plac- 
25 ing her in Adam’s arms, and had not yet withdrawn her own, 
Totty opened her eyes, and forthwith fought out with her left 
fist at Adam’s arm, and with her right caught at the string of 
brown beads round Hetty’s neck. The locket leaped out from her 
frock, and the next moment the string was broken, and Hetty, 
30 helpless, saw beads and locket scattered wide on the floor. 

“My locket, my locket!” she said, in a loud frightened 
whisper to Adam; “never mind the beads.” 

Adam had already seen where the locket fell, for it had 
attracted his glance as it leaped out of her frock. It had fallen 
35 on the raised wooden dais where the band sat, not on the 
stone floor; and as Adam picked it up, he saw the glass with 
the dark and light locks of hair under it. It had fallen that 


THE DANCE 


309 

side upwards, so the glass was not broken. He turned it over 
on his hand, and saw the enamelled gold back. 

“It isn’t hurt,” he said, as he held it towards Hetty, who 
was unable to take it because both her hands were occupied 
with Totty. s 

“Oh, it doesn’t matter, I don’t mind about it,” said Hetty, 
who had been pale and was now red. 

“Not matter?” said Adam, gravely. “You seemed very 
frightened about it. I’ll hold it till you’re ready to take it,” 
he added, quietly closing his hand over it, that she might not 10 
think he wanted to look at it again. 

By this time Molly had come with bonnet and shawl, and 
as soon as she had taken Totty, Adam placed the locket in 
Hetty’s hand. She took it with an air of indifference, and 
put it in her pocket; in her heart vexed and angry with is 
Adam, because he had seen it, but determined now that she 
would show no more signs of agitation. 

“See,” she said, “they’re taking their places to dance; let 
us go.” 

Adam assented silently. A puzzled alarm had taken pos- 20 
session of him. Had Hetty a lover he didn’t know of?—for 
none of her relations, he was sure, would give her a locket like 
that; and none of her admirers, with whom he was ac¬ 
quainted, was in the position of an accepted lover, as the 
giver of that locket must be. Adam was lost in the utter 25 
impossibility of finding any person for his fears to alight on: he 
could only feel with a terrible pang that there was something 
in Hetty’s life unknown to him; that while he had been rock¬ 
ing himself in the hope that she would come to love him, she 
was already loving another. The pleasure of the dance with 30 
Hetty was gone; his eyes, when they rested on her, had an 
uneasy questioning expression in them; he could think of 
nothing to say to her; and she, too, was out of temper and dis¬ 
inclined to speak. They were both glad when the dance was 
ended. 35 

Adam was determined to stay no longer; no one wanted 
him, and no one would notice if he slipped away. As soon as 


ADAM BEDE 


310 

he got out of doors, he began to walk at his habitual rapid 
pace, hurrying along without knowing why, busy with the 
painful thought that the memory of this day, so full of honour 
and promise to him, was poisoned for ever. Suddenly, when 
she was far on through the Chase, he stopped, startled by a 
flash of reviving hope. After all, he might be a fool, making a 
great misery out of a trifle. Hetty, fond of finery as she was, 
might have bought the thing herself. It looked too expensive 
for that—it looked like the things on white satin in the great 
10 jeweller’s shop at Rosseter. But Adam had very imperfect 
notions of the value of such things, and he thought it could 
certainly not cost more than a guinea. Perhaps Hetty had 
had as much as that in Christmas boxes, and there was no 
knowing but she might have been childish enough to spend it 
15 in that way; she was such a young thing, and she couldn’t 
help loving finery! But then, why had she been so frightened 
about it at first, and changed colour so, and afterwards pre¬ 
tended not to care ? Oh, that was because she was ashamed 
of his seeing that she had such a smart thing—she was con- 
20 scious that it was wrong for her to spend her money on it, and 
she knew that Adam disapproved of finery. It was a proof 
she cared about what he liked and disliked. She must have 
thought from his silence and gravity afterwards that he was 
very much displeased with her, that he was inclined to be 
25 harsh and severe towards her foibles. And as he walked on 
more quietly, chewing the cud of this new hope, his only un¬ 
easiness was that he had behaved in a way which might chill 
Hetty’s feeling towards him. For this last view of the matter 
must be the true one. How could Hetty have an accepted 
30 lover, quite unknown to him? She was never away from her 
uncle’s house for more than a day; she could have no ac¬ 
quaintances that did not come there, and no intimacies un¬ 
known to her uncle and aunt. It would be folly to believe 
that the locket was given to her by a lover. The little ring 
35 of dark hair he felt sure was her own; he could form no guess 
about the light hair under it, for he had not seen it very dis¬ 
tinctly. It might be a bit of her father’s or mother’s, who had 


THE DANCE 


311 

died when she was a child, and she would naturally put a bit 
of her own along with it. 

And so Adam went to bed comforted, having woven for 
himself an ingenious web of probabilities—the surest screen 
a wise man can place between himself and the truth. His 5 
last waking thoughts melted into a dream that he was with 
Hetty again at the Hall Farm, and that he was asking her to 
forgive him for being so cold and silent. 

And while he was dreaming this, Arthur was leading Hetty 
to the dance, and saying to her in low hurried tones, “I shall 10 
be in the wood the day after to-morrow at seven; come as 
early as you can.” And Hetty’s foolish joys and hopes, which 
had flown away for a little space, scared by a mere nothing, 
now all came fluttering back, unconscious of the real peril. 
She was happy for the first time this long day, and wished that 15 
dance would last for hours. Arthur wished it too; it was the 
last weakness he meant to indulge in; and a man never lies 
with more delicious languor under the influence of a passion, 
than when he has persuaded himself that he shall subdue it 
to-morrow. 20 

But Mrs. Poyser’s wishes were quite the reverse of this, 
for her mind was filled with dreary forebodings as to the 
retardation of to-morrow morning’s cheese in consequence of 
these late hours. Now that Hetty had done her duty and 
danced one dance with the young Squire, Mr. Poyser must 25 
go out and see if the cart was come back to fetch them, for it 
was half-past ten o’clock, and notwithstanding a mild sugges¬ 
tion on his part that it would be bad manners for them to be 
the first to go, Mrs. Poyser was resolute on the point, “man¬ 
ners or no manners.” 30 

“What! going already, Mrs. Poyser?” said old Mr. Don- 
nithorne, as she came to curtsy and take leave; “ I thought we 
should not part with any of our guests till eleven: Mrs. 
Irwine and I, who are elderly people, think of sitting out the 
dance till then.” 35 

“Oh, your honour, it’s all right and proper for gentlefolks 
to stay up by candle-light—they’ve got no cheese on their 


ADAM BEDE 


minds. We’re late enough as it is, an’ there’s no lettin the 
cows know as they mustn’t want to be milked so early to¬ 
morrow mormn’. So, if you’ll please t excuse us, we 11 take 

our leave.” . . 

5 “Eh!” she said to her husband, as they set oft in the cart, 

“Fd sooner ha’ brewin’ day and washin’ day together than 
one o’ these pleasurin’ days. There’s no work so tirin ^as 
danglin’ about an’ starin’ an’ not rightly knowin’ what you’re 
goin’ to do next; and keepin’ your face i’ smilin’ order like 
io a grocer o’ market-day for fear people shouldna think you 
civil enough. An’ you’ve nothing to show for’t when it’s 
done, if it isn’t a yallow face wi’ eatin’ things as disagree.” 

“Nay, nay,” say Mr. Poyser, who was in his^merriest 
mood, and felt that he had had a great day, “a bit o’ pleasur- 
15 ing’s good for thee sometimes. An’ thee danc’st as well as 
any of ’em, for I’ll back thee against all the wives i’ the parish 
for a light foot an’ ankle. An’ it was a great honour for the 
young Squire to ask thee first—I reckon it was because I sat 
at th’ head o’ the table an’ made the speech. An’ Hetty too 
20 —she never had such a partner before—a fine young gentle¬ 
man in reg’mentals. It’ll serve you to talk on, Hetty, when 
you’re an old woman — how you danced wi’ th’ young Squire 
the day he come o’ age.” 


CHAPTER XXVII 


A CRISIS 

It was beyond the middle of August—nearly three weeks 
after the birthday feast. The reaping of the wheat had begun 
in our north midland county of Loamshire, but the harvest 
was likely still to be retarded by the heavy rains, which were 
causing inundations and much damage throughout the coun- 5 
try. From this last trouble the Broxton and Hayslope far¬ 
mers, on their pleasant uplands, and in their brook-watered 
valleys, had not suffered, and as I cannot pretend that they 
were such exceptional farmers as to love the general good bet¬ 
ter than their own, you will infer that they were not in very 10 
low spirits about the rapid rise in the price of bread, so long 
as there was hope of gathering in their own corn undamaged; 
and occasional days of sunshine and drying winds flattered 
this hope. 

The eighteenth of August was one of these days, when the 15 
sunshine looked brighter in all eyes for the gloom that went 
before. Grand masses of cloud were hurried across the blue, 
and the great round hills behind the Chase seemed alive with 
their flying shadows; the sun was hidden for a moment, and 
then shone out warm again like a recovered joy; the leaves, 20 
still green, were tossed off the hedgerow trees by the wind; 
around the farmhouses there was a sound of clapping doors; 
the apples fell in the orchards; and the stray horses on the 
green sides of the lanes and on the common had their manes 
blown about their faces. And yet the wind seemed only part 25 
of the general gladness because the sun was shining. A merry 
day for the children, who ran and shouted to see if they could 
top the wind with their voices; and the grown-up people, too, 
were in good spirits, inclined to believe in yet finer days, when 

313 


ADAM BEDE 


3 H 

the wind had fallen. If only the com were not ripe enough to 
be blown out of the husk and scattered as untimely seed! 

And yet a day on which a blighting sorrow may fall upon 
a man. For if it be true that Nature at certain moments 
s seems charged with a presentiment of one individual lot, must 
it not also be true that she seems unmindful, unconscious of 
another? For there is no hour that has not its births of glad¬ 
ness and despair, no morning brightness that does not bring 
new .sickness to desolation as well as new forces to g e JIJ^ s and 
10 love. There are so many of us, and our lots are so different: 
what wonder that Nature’s mood is often in harsh contrast 
with the great crisis of our lives? We are children of a large 
family, and must learn, as such children do, i»*>t to expect 
that our hurts will be made much of—to be content with little 
is nurture and caressing, and help each other the more. 

It was a busy day with Adam, who of late had done almost 
double work; for he was continuing to act as foreman for 
Jonathan Burge, until some satisfactory person could be found 
to supply his place, and Jonathan was slow to find that person. 
20 But he had done the extra work cheerfully, for his hopes were 
buoyant again about Hetty. Every time she had seen him 
since the birthday, she had seemed to make an effort to behave 
all the more kindly to him, fhat she might make him under¬ 
stand she had forgiven his silence and coldness during the 
25 dance. He had never mentioned the locket to her again; too 
happy that she smiled at him—still happier because he ob¬ 
served in her a more subdued air, something that he inter¬ 
preted as the growth of womanly tenderness and seriousness. 
“Ah!” he thought, again and again, “she’s only seventeen; 
30 she’ll be thoughtful enough after a while. And her aunt allays 
says how clever she is at the work. She’ll make a wife as 
mother’ll have no occasion to grumble at, after all.” To be 
sure, he had only seen her at home twice since the birthday; 
for one Sunday, when he was intending to go from church to the 
35 Hall Farm, Hetty had joined the party of upper servants from 
the Chase, and had gone home with them—almost as if she 
were inclined to encourage Mr. Craig. “She’s takin’ too 


A CRISIS 


315 


much likin’ to them folks i’ the housekeeper’s room,” Mrs. 
Poyser remarked. ‘‘For my part, I was never over-fond o’ 
gentlefolks’s servants—they’re mostly like the fine ladies’ fat 
dogs, nayther good for barking nor butcher’s meat, but on’y 
for show.” And another evening she was gone to Treddleston 5 
to buy some things; though, to his great surprise, as he was 
returning home, he saw her at a distance getting over a stile 
quite out of the Treddleston road. But, when he hastened to 
her, she was very kind, and asked him to go in again when he 
had taken her to the yard gate. She had gone a little farther ia 
into the fields after coming from Treddleston, because she 
didn’t want to go in, she said: it was so nice to be out of doors, 
and her aunt always made such a fuss about it if she wanted to 
go out. “Oh, do come in with me!” she said,, as he was going 
to shake hands with her at the gate, and he could not resist 15 
that. So he went in, and Mrs. Poyser was contented with only 
a slight remark on Hetty’s being later than was expected; 
while Hetty, who had looked out of spirits when he met her, 
smiled and talked, and waited on them all with unusual 
promptitude. 20 

That was the last time he had seen her; but he meant to 
make leisure for going to the Farm to-morrow. Today, he 
knew, was her day for going to the Chase to sew with the 
lady’s-maid, so he would get as much work done as possible 
this evening, that the next might be clear. 25 

One piece of work that Adam was superintending was some 
slight repairs at the Chase Farm, which had been hitherto 
occupied by Satchell, as bailiff, but which it was now ru¬ 
moured that the old Squire was going to let to a smart man 
in top-boots, who had been seen to ride over it one day. 30 
Nothing but the desire to get a tenant could account for the 
Squire’s undertaking repairs, though the Saturday-evening 
party at Mr. Casson’s agreed over their pipes that no man in 
his senses would take the Chase Farm unless there was a bit 
more ploughland laid to it. However that might be, the re- 35, 
pairs were ordered to be executed with all despatch; and 
Adam, acting for Mr. Burge, was carrying out the order with 


ADAM BEDE 


316 

his usual energy. But to-day, having been occupied elsewhere, 
he had not been able to arrive at the Chase Farm till late in 
the afternoon, and he then discovered that some old roofing, 
which he had calculated on preserving, had given way. There 
5 was clearly no good to be done with this part of the build¬ 
ing without pulling it all down; and Adam immediately saw 
in his mind a plan for building it up again, so as to make the 
most convenient of cow-sheds and calf-pens, with a hovel for 
implements; and all without any great expense for materials. 
10 So, when the workmen were gone, he sat down, took out his 
pocket-book, and busied himself with sketching a plan, and 
making a specification of the expenses, that he might show it 
to Burge the next morning, and set him on persuading the 
Squire to consent. To “make a good job” of anything, how- 
15 ever small, was always a pleasure to Adam; and he sat on a 
block, with his book resting on a planing-table, whistling low 
every now and then, and turning his head on one side with a 
just perceptible smile of gratification—of pride, too, for if 
Adam loved a bit of good work, he loved also to think, “I did 
20it!” And I believe the only people who are free from that 
weakness are those who have no work to call their own. It 
was nearly seven before he had finished and put on his jacket 
again; and on giving a last look round, he observed that Seth, 
who had been working here to-day, had left his basket of tools 
25 behind him. “Why, th’ lad’s forgot his tools,” thought 
Adam, “and he’s got to work up at the shop to-morrow. 
There never was such a chap for wool-gathering; he’d leave 
his head behind him, if it was loose. However, it’s lucky I’ve 
seen ’em; I’ll carry ’em home.” 

30 The buildings of the Chase Farm lay at one extremity of 
the Chase, at about ten minutes’ walking distance from the 
Abbey. Adam had come thither on his pony, intending to 
ride to the stables, and put up his nag on his way home. At 
the stables he encountered Mr. Craig, who had come to look 
35 at the Captain’s new horse, on which he was to ride away the 
day after to-morrow; and Mr. Craig detained him to tell 
how all the servants were to collect at the gate of the court- 


A CRISIS 


317 

yard to wish the young Squire luck as he rode out; so that by 
the time Adam had,got into the Chase, and was striding along 
with the basket of tools over his shoulder, the sun was on the 
point of setting, and was sending level crimson rays among the 
great trunks of the old oaks, and touching every bare patchy 
of ground with a transient glory, that made it look like a jewel 
dropt upon the grass. The wind had fallen now, and there 
was only enough breeze to stir the delicate-stemmed leaves. 
Any one who had been sitting in the house all day would have 
been glad to walk now; but Adam had been quite enough in 10 
the open air to wish to shorten his way home; and he be¬ 
thought himself that he might do so by striking across the 
Chase and going t rough the Grove, where he had never 
been for years. He hurried on across the Chase, stalking 
along the narrow paths between the fern, with Gyp at his 15 
heels, not lingering to watch the magnificent changes of the 
light—hardly once thinking of it—yet feeling its presence in a 
certain calm happy awe which mingled itself with his busy 
working-day thoughts. How could he help feeling it? The 
very deer felt it, and were more timid. 20 

Presently Adam’s thoughts recurred to what Mr. Craig had 
said about Arthur Donnithorne, and pictured his going away, 
and the changes that might take place before he came back; 
then they travelled back affectionately over the old scenes of 
boyish companionship, and dwelt on Arthur’s good qualities, 25 
which Adam had a pride in, as we all have in the virtues of the 
superior who honours us. A nature like Adam’s, with a great 
need of love and reverence in it, depends for so much of its 
happiness on what it can believe and feel about others! And 
he had no ideal world of dead heroes; he knew little of the life 30 
of men in the past; he must find the beings to whom he could 
cling with loving admiration among those who came within 
speech of him. These pleasant thoughts about Arthur 
brought a milder expression than usual into his keen rough 
face: perhaps they were the reason why, when he opened the35 
old green gate leading into the Grove, he paused to pat Gyp, 
and say a kind word to him. 


ADAM BEDE 


3*8 

After that pause, ne strode on again along the broad wind¬ 
ing path through the Grove. What grand beeches! Adam 
delighted in a fine tree of all things; as the fisherman’s sight 
is keenest on the sea, so Adam’s perceptions were more at 
s-home with trees than with other objects. He kept them in 
his memory, as a painter does, with all the flecks and knots 
in their bark, all the curves and angles of their boughs; and 
had often calculated the height and contents of a trunk to a 
nicety, as he stood looking at it. No wonder that, notwith¬ 
standing his desire to get on, he could not help pausing to 
look at a curious large beech which he had seen standing 
before him at a turning in the road, and convince himself that 
it was not two trees wedded together, but only one. For the 
rest of his life he remembered that moment when he was calm- 
15 ly examining the beech, as a man remembers his last glimpse 
of the home where his youth was passed, before the road 
turned, and he saw it no more. The beech stood at the last 
turning before the Grove ended in an archway of boughs that 
let in the eastern light; and as Adam stepped away from the 
20 tree to continue his walk, his eyes fell on two figures about 
twenty yards before him. 

He remained as motionless as a statue, and turned almost 
as pale. The two figures were standing opposite to each other, 
with clasped hands about to part; and while they were bend- 
25 ing to kiss, Gyp, who had been running among the brush¬ 
wood, came out, caught sight of them, and gave a sharp bark. 
They separated with a start—one hurried through the gate out 
of the Grove, and the other, turning round, walked slowly, 
with a sort of saunter, towards Adam, who still stood trans- 
30 fixed and pale, clutching tighter the stick with which he held 
the basket of tools over his shoulder, and looking at the 
approaching figure with eyes in which amazement was fast 
turning to fierceness. 

Arthur Donnithorne looked flushed and excited; he had 
35 tried to make unpleasant feelings more bearable by drinking 
a little more wine than usual at dinner to-day, and was still 
enough under its flattering influence to think more lightly of 


A CRISIS 


3*9 


this unwished-for rencontre with Adam than he would other¬ 
wise have done. After all, Adam was the best person who 
could have happened to see him and Hetty together: he was 
a sensible fellow, and would not babble about it to other 
people. Arthur felt confident that he could laugh the things 
off*, and explain it away. And so he sauntered forward with 
elaborate carelessness—his flushed face, his evening dress of 
fine cloth and fine linen, his hands half thrust into the waist¬ 
coat pockets, all shone upon by the strange evening light which 
the light clouds had caught up even to the zenith, and were ro 
now shedding down between the topmost branches above him. 

Adam was still motionless, looking at him as he came up. 
He understood it all now—the locket, and everything else 
that had been doubtful to him: a terrible scorching light 
showed him the hidden letters that changed the meaning of is 
the past. If he had moved a muscle, he must inevitably have 
sprung upon Arthur like a tiger; and in the conflicting emo¬ 
tions that filled those long moments, he had told himself 
that he would not give loose to passion, he would only speak 
the right thing. He stood as if petrified by an unseen force, 20 
but the force was his own strong will. 

“Well, Adam,” said Arthur, “you’ve been looking at the 
fine old beeches, eh? They’re not to be come near by the 
hatchet, though; this is a sacred grove. I overtook pretty 
little Hetty Sorrel as I was coming to my den—the Her- 2s 
mitage, there. She ought not to come home this way so late. 

So I took care of her to the gate, and asked for a kiss for my 
pains. But I must get back now, for this road is confoundedly 
damp. Good-night, Adam: I shall see you to-morrow—to 
say good-bye, you know.” 30 

Arthur was too much preoccupied with the part he was 
playing himself to be thoroughly aware of the expression in 
Adam’s face. He did not look directly at Adam, but glanced 
carelessly round at the trees, and then lifted up one foot to 
look at the sole of his boot. He cared to say no more; he had 35 
thrown quite dust enough into honest Adam’s eyes; and as 
he spoke the last words, he walked on. 


320 


ADAM BEDE 


“Stop a bit, sir,” said Adam, in a hard peremptory voice, 
without turning round. “I’ve a word to say to you. 

Arthur paused in surprise. Susceptible persons are more 
affected by a change of tone than by unexpected words, and 
5 Arthur had the susceptibility of a nature at once affectionate 
and vain. He was still more surprised when he saw that 
Adam had not moved, but stood with his back to him, as if 
summoning him to return. What did he mean? He was going 
to make a serious business of this affair. Arthur felt his tem- 
io per rising. A patronising disposition always has its meaner 
side, and in the confusion of his irritation and alarm there 
entered the feeling that a man whom he had shown so. much 
favour as to Adam, was not in a position to criticise his con¬ 
duct. And yet he was dominated, as one who feels himself in 
is the wrong always is, by the man whose good opinion he cares 
for. In spite of pride and temper, there was as much depre¬ 
cation as anger in his voice when he said— 

“What do you mean, Adam?” 

“I mean, sir/ answered Adam, in the same harsh voice, 
20still without turning round,—“I mean,.sir, that you don’t 
deceive me by your light words. This is not the first time 
you’ve met Hetty Sorrel in this grove, and this is not the first 
time you’ve kissed her.” 

Arthur felt a startled uncertainty how far Adam was speaking 
25 from knowledge, and how far from mere inference. And this un¬ 
certainty, which prevented him from contriving a prudent an¬ 
swer, heightened his irritation. He said, in a high sharp tone— 

“Well, sir, what then?” . 

“Why, then, instead.of acting like th’ upright, honourable 
30 man we’ve all believed you to be, you’ve been acting the part 
of a selfish, light-minded scoundrel. You know, as well as I 
do, what it’s to lead to, when a gentleman like you kisses and 
makes love to a young woman like Hetty, and gives her pre¬ 
sents as she’s frightened for other folks to see. And I say it 
35 again, you’re acting the part of a selfish light-minded scoun¬ 
drel, though it cuts me to th’ heart to say so, and I’d rather 
ha’ lost my right hand.” 


A CRISIS 


321 


“Let me tell you, Adam,” said Arthur, bridling his growing 
anger, and trying to recur to his careless tone, “you’re not 
only devilishly impertinent, but you’re talking nonsense. 
Every pretty girl is not such a fool as you, to suppose that 
when a gentleman admires her beauty, and pays her a little 5 
attention, he must mean something particular. Every man 
likes to flirt with a pretty girl, and every pretty girl likes to 
be flirted with. The wider the distance between them the less 
harm there is, for then she’s not likely to deceive herself.” 

“I don’t know what you mean by flirting,” said Adam, io 
“but if you mean behaving to a woman as if you loved her, 
and yet not loving her all the while, I say that’s not th’ action 
of an honest man, and what isn’t honest does come t’ harm. 
I’m not a fool, and you’re not a fool, and you know better 
than what you’re saying. You know it couldn’t be made 15 
public as you’ve behaved to Hetty as y’ have done without 
her losing her character, and bringing shame and trouble on 
her and her relations. What if you meant nothing by your 
kissing and your presents? Other folks won’t believe as 
you’ve meant nothing; and don’t tell me about her not de-20 
ceiving herself. I tell you as you’ve filled her mind so with 
the thought of you, as it’ll mayhap poison her life; and she’ll 
never love another man as ’ud make her a good husband.” 

Arthur had felt a sudden relief while Adam was speaking; 
he perceived that Adam had no positive knowledge of the 25 
past, and that there was no irrevocable damage done by this 
evening’s unfortunate rencontre. Adam could still be de¬ 
ceived. The candid Arthur had brought himself into a 
position in which successful lying was his only hope. The 
hope allayed his anger a little. > . 30 

“Well, Adam,” he said, in a tone of friendly concession, 
“you’re perhaps right. Perhaps I’ve gone a little too far in 
taking notice of the pretty little thing, and stealing a kiss 
now and then. You’re such a grave, steady fellow, you don’t 
understand the temptation to such trifling. I’m sure 1 35 
wouldn’t bring any trouble or annoyance on her and the good 
Poysers on any account if I could help it. But I think you 


ADAM BEDE 


322 

look a little too seriously at it. You know I’m going away 
immediately, so I shan’t make any more mistakes of the kind. 
But let us say good-night,”—Arthur here turned round to 
walk on—“and talk no more about the matter. The whole 
s thing will soon be forgotten.” 

“No, by God!” Adam burst out with rage that could be 
controlled no longer, throwing down the basket of tools, and 
striding forward till he was right in front of Arthur. All his 
jealousy and sense of personal injury, which he had been 
10 hitherto trying to keep under, had leaped up and mastered 
him. What man of us, in the first moments of a sharp agony, 
could ever feel that the fellow-man who has been the medium 
of inflicting it, did not mean to hurt us ? In our instinctive 
rebellion against pain, we are children again, and demand an 
15 active will to wreak our vengenace on. Adam at this moment 
could only feel that he had been robbed of Hetty—robbed 
treacherously by the man in whom he had trusted; and he 
stood close in front of Arthur, with fierce eyes glaring at him 
with pale lips and clenched hands, the hard tones in which 
20 he had hitherto been constraining himself to express no more 
than a just indignation, giving way to a deep agitated voice 
that seemed to shake him as he spoke. 

“No, it’ll not be soon forgot, as you’ve come in between 
her and me, when she might ha’ loved me—it’ll not soon be 
25 forgot as you’ve robbed me o’ my happiness, while I thought 
you was my best friend, and a noble-minded man, as I was 
proud to work for. And you’ve been kissing her, and mean¬ 
ing nothing, have you? And I never kissed her i’ my life—• 
but I’d ha’ worked hard for years for the right to kiss her. 
30 And you make light of it. You think little o’ doing what may 
damage other folks, so as you get your bit o’trifling, as means 
nothing. I throw back your favours, for you’re not the man I 
took you for. I’ll never count you my friend any more. I’d 
rather you’d act as my enemy, and fight me where I stand— 
3S it’s all th’ amends you can make me.” 

Poor Adam, possessed by rage that could find no other 
vent, began to throw off his coat and his cap, too blind with 


A CRISIS 


323 

passion to notice the change that had taken place in Arthur 
while he was speaking. Arthur’s lips were now as pale as 
Adam’s; his heart was beating violently. The discovery that 
Adam loved Hetty was a shock which made him for the 
moment see himself in the light of Adam’s indignation, and 5 
regard Adam’s suffering as not merely a consequence, but an 
element of his error. The words of hatred and contempt—the 
first he had ever heard in his life—seemed like scorching 
missiles that were making ineffaceable scars on him. All 
screening self-excuse, which rarely falls quite away while 10 
o hers respect us, forsook him for an instant, and he stood 
face to face with the first great irrevocable evil he had ever 
committed. He was only twenty-one—and three months ago 
—nay, much later—he had thought proudly that no man 
should ever be able to reproach him justly. His first impulse, is 
if there had been time for it, would perhaps have been to 
utter words of propitiation; but Adam had no sooner thrown 
off his coat and cap, than he became aware that Arthur was 
standing pale and motionless, with his hands still thrust in 
his waistcoat pockets. 20 

“What!” he said, “won’t you fight me like a man? You 
know I won’t strike you while you stand so.” 

“Go away, Adam,” said Arthur, “I don’t want to fight 
you.” 

“No,” said Adam, bitterly; “you don’t want to fight me,—'25 
you think I’m a common man, as you can injure without 
answering for it.” 

“I never meant to injure you,” said Arthur, with returning 
anger. “I didn’t know you loved her.” 

“But you’ve made her love you ,” said Adam. ‘’You’re a 30 
double-faced man—I’ll never believe a word you say again.” 

“Go away, I tell you,” said Arthur, angrily, “or we shall 
both repent.” 

“No,” said Adam, with a convulsed voice, “I swear I won’t 
go away without fighting you. Do you want provoking any 35 
more? I tell you you’re a coward and a scoundrel, and I 
despise you.” 


ADAM BEDE 


324 

The colour had all rushed back to Arthur’s face; in a 
moment his right hand was clenched, and dealt a blow like 
lightning, which sent Adam staggering backward. His blood 
was as thoroughly up as Adam’s now, and the two men, for- 
s getting the emotions that had gone before, fought with the 
instinctive fierceness of panthers in the deepening twilight 
darkened by the trees. The delicate-handed gentleman was a 
match for the workman in everything but strength, and 
Arthur’s skill enabled him to protract the struggle for some 
10 long moment. °But between unarmed men the battle is to 
the strong, where the strong is no blunderer, and Arthur must 
sink under a well-planted blow of Adam’s, as a steel rod is 
broken by an iron bar. The blow soon came, and Arthur fell, 
his head lying concealed in a tuft of fern, so that Adam could 
is only discern his darkly-clad body. 

He stood still in the dim light waiting for Arthur to rise. 

The blow had been given now, towards which he had been 
straining all the force of nerve and muscle—and what was the 
good of it? What had he done by fighting? Only satisfied 
20 his own passion, only wreaked his own vengeance. He had not 
rescued Hetty, nor changed the past—there is was just as it 
had been, and he sickened at the vanity of his own rage. 

But why did not Arthur rise ? He was perfectly motionless, 
and the time seemed long to Adam. . . . Good Good! had the 
25 blow been too much for him ? Adam shuddered at the thought 
of his own strength, as with the oncoming of this dread he 
knelt down by Arthur’s side and lifted his head from among 
the fern. There was no sign of life: the eyes and teeth were 
set. The horror that rushed over Adam completely mastered 
30 him, and forced upon him its own belief. He could feel noth¬ 
ing but that death was in Arthur’s face, and that he was help¬ 
less before it. He made not a single movement, but knelt like 
an image of despair gazing at an image of death. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 

A DILEMMA 

It was only a few minutes measured by the clock—though 
Adam always thought it had been a long while—before he 
perceived a gleam of consciousness in Arthur’s face and a 
slight shiver through his frame. The intense joy that flooded 
his soul brought back some of the old affection with it. 5 

“Do you feel any pain, sir?” he said, tenderly, loosening 
Arthur’s cravat. 

Arthur turned his eyes on Adam with a vague stare which 
gave way to a slightly startled motion as if from the shock of re¬ 
turning memory. But he only shivered again and said nothing. 10 

“Do 370U feel any hurt, sir?” Adam said again, with a 
trembling in his voice. 

Arthur put his hand up to his waistcoat buttons, and when 
Adam had unbuttoned it, he took a longer breath. “Lay my 
head down,” he said, faintly, “ and get me some water if you 15 
can.” 

Adam laid the head down gently on the fern again, and 
emptying the tools out of the flag-basket, hurried through the 
trees to the edge of the Grove bordering on the Chase, where 
a brook ran below the bank. 20 

When he returned with his basket leaking, but still half 
full, Arthur looked at him with a more thoroughly reawakened 
consciousness. 

“Can you drink a drop out o’ your hand, sir?” said Adam, 
kneeling down again to lift up Arthur’s head. 25 

“No,” said Arthur, “dip my cravat in and souse it on my 
head.” 

The water seemed to do him some good, for he presently 
raised himself a little higher, resting on Adam’s arm. 

325 


ADAM BEDE 


326 

“Do you feel any hurt inside, sir?” Adam asked again. 

“No—no hurt,” said Arthur, still faintly, “but rather done 
up.” 

After a while he said, “ I supposed I fainted away when you 
s knocked me down.” 

“Yes, sir, thank God,” said Adam. “I thought it was 
worse.” 

“What! you thought you’d done for me, eh? come, help me 
on my legs.” . 

10 “ I feel terribly shaky and dizzy,” Arthur said, as he stood 

leaning on Adam’s arm; “that blow of yours must have come 
against me like a battering-ram. I don’t believe I can walk 
alone.” 

“Lean on me, sir; I’ll get you along,” said Adam. “Or, 
15 will you sit down a bit longer, on my coat here? and I’ll prop 
y’ up. You’ll perhaps be better in a minute or two.” 

“No,” said Arthur. “I’ll go to the Hermitage—I think 
Fve got some brandy there. There’s a short road to it a 
little further on, near the gate. If you’ll just help me on.” 
20 They walked slowly, with frequent pauses, but without 
speaking again. In both of them, the concentration in the 
present which had attended the first moments of Arthur’s 
revival, had now given way to a vivid recollection of the 
previous scene. It was nearly dark in the narrow path among 
25 the trees, but within the circle of fir-trees round the Hermitage 
there was room for the growing moonlight to enter in at the 
windows. Their steps were noiseless on the thick carpet of 
fir-needles, and the outward stillness seemed to heighten their 
inward consciousness, as Arthur took the key out of his 
30 pocket and placed it in Adam’s hand, for him to open the 
door. Adam had not known before that Arthur had fur¬ 
nished the old Hermitage and made it a retreat for himself, 
and it was a surprise to him when he opened the door to see 
a snug room with all the signs of frequent habitation. 

35 Arthur loosed Adam’s arm and threw himself on the otto¬ 
man. “You’ll see my hunting-bottle somewhere,” he said. 
“A leather case with a bottle and glass in.” 


A DILEMMA 


327 

Adam was not long in finding the case. “There’s very little 
brandy in it, sir,” he said, turning it downwards over the glass, 
as he held it before the window, “ hardly this little glassful.” 

“Well, give me that,” said Arthur, with the peevishness of 
physical depression. When he had taken some sips, Adams 
said, “Hadn’t I better run to th’ house, sir, and get some more 
brandy? I can be there and back pretty soon. It’ll be a stiff 
walk home for you, if you don’t have something to revive you.” 

“Yes—go. But don’t say I’m ill. Ask for my man Pym, 
and tell him to get it from Mills, and not to say I’m at the 10 
Hermitage. Get some water too.” 

Adam was relieved to have an active task—both of them 
were relieved to be apart from each other for a short time. But 
Adam’s swift pace could not still the eager pain of thinking— 
of living again with concentrated suffering through the last 15 
wretched hour, and looking out from it over all the new, sad 
future. 

Arthur lay still for some minutes after Adam was gone, 
but presently he rose feebly from the ottoman and peered 
about slowly in the broken moonlight, seeking something. It 20 
was a short bit of wax candle that stood amongst a confusion 
of writing and drawing materials. There was more searching 
for the means of lighting the candle, and when that was done, 
he went cautiously round the room, as if wishing to assure him¬ 
self of the presence or absence of something. At last he had 25 
found a slight thing, which he put first in his pocket, and then, 
on a second thought, took out again, and thrust deep down 
into a waste-paper basket. It was a woman’s little pink 
silk neckerchief. He set the candle on the table, and threw 
himself down on the ottoman again, exhausted with the 30 
effort. 

When Adam came back with his supplies, his entrance 
awoke Arthur from a doze. 

“That’s right,” Arthur said; “I’m tremendously in want 
of some brandy-vigour.” 35 

“I’m glad to see you’ve got a light, sir,” said Adam. “I’ve 
been thinking I’d better have asked for a °lanthorn.” 


328 


ADAM BEDE 


“No, no; the candle will last long enough—I shall soon 
be up to walking home now.” t 

“ I can’t go before I’ve seen you safe home, sir, said Adam, 
hesitatingly. . „ 

s “No: it will be better for you to stay—sit down. 

Adam sat down, and they remained opposite to each other 
in uneasy silence, while Arthur slowly drank brandy-and- 
water, with visibly renovating effect. He began to lie in a 
more voluntary position, and looked as if he were less over- 
io powered by bodily sensations. Adam was keenly alive to 
these indications, and as his anxiety about Arthur s condition 
began to be allayed, he felt more of that impatience which 
every one knows who has had his just indignation suspended 
by the physical state of the culprit. Yet there was one thing 
15 on his mind to be done before he could recur to remonstrance: 
it was to confess what had been unjust in his own words. 
Perhaps he longed all the more to make his confession, that his 
indignation might be free again; and as he saw the signs of 
returning ease in Arthur, the words again and again came to 
20 his lips and went back, checked by the thought that it would 
be better to leave everything till to-morrow. As long as they 
were silent they did not look at each other, and a foreboding 
came across Adam that if they began to speak as though they 
remembered the past—if they looked at each with full recog- 
25 nition—they must take fire again. So they sat in silence till 
the bit of wax candle flickered low in the socket; the silence 
all the while becoming more irksome to Adam. Arthur had 
just poured out some more brandy-and-water, and he threw 
one arm behind his head and drew up one leg in an attitude 
30 of recovered ease, which was an irresistible temptation to 
Adam to speak what was on his mind. 

“You begin to feel more yourself again, sir,” he said, as the 
candle went out, and they were half-hidden from each other 
in the faint moonlight. 

35 “Yes: I don’t feel good for much—very lazy, and not in¬ 
clined to move; but I’ll go home when I’ve taken this dose.” 
There was a slight pause before Adam said— 


A DILEMMA 


329 


“My temper got the better of me, and I said things as 
wasn’t true. I’d no right to speak as if you’d known you was 
doing me an injury: you’d no grounds for knowing it; Fve 
always kept what I felt for her as secret as I could.” 

He paused again before he went on. 5 

“And perhaps I judged you too harsh—I’m apt to be 
harsh; and you may have acted out o’ thoughtlessness more 
than I should ha’ believed was possible for a man with a heart 
and a conscience. We’re not all put together alike, and we 
may misjudge one another. God knows, it’s all the joy 1 10 
could have now, to think the best of you.” 

Arthur wanted to go home without saying any more—he 
was too painfully embarrassed in mind, as well as too weak in 
body, to wish for any further explanation to-night. And yet 
it was a relief to him that Adam reopened the subject in a 15 
way the least difficult for him to answer. Arthur was in the 
wretched position of an open, generous man, who has com¬ 
mitted an error which makes deception seem a necessity. The 
native impulse to give truth in return for truth, to meet trust 
wfith frank confession, must be suppressed, and duty was be-20 
come a question of tactics. His deed was reacting upon him— 
was already governing him tyrannously, and forcing him into 
a course that jarred with his habitual feelings. The oniy aim 
that seemed admissible to him now was to deceive Adam to 
the utmost: to make Adam think better of him than he 25 
deserved. And when he heard the words of honest retraction 
—when he heard the sad appeal with which Adam ended—he 
was obliged to rejoice in the remains of ignorant confidence 
it implied. He did not answer immediately, for he had to be 
judicious and not truthful. 30 

“Say no more about our anger, Adam,” he said, at last, very 
languidly, for the labour of speech was unwelcome to him; “I for¬ 
give your momentary injustice—it was quite natural, with the 
exaggerated notions you had in your mind. We shall be none the 
worse friends in future, I hope, because we’ve fought- you had 35 
the best of it, and that was as it should be, for I believe I’ve 
been most in the wrong of the two. Come, let us shake hands.” 


ADAM BEDE 


33° 

Arthur held out his hand, but Adam sat still. 

“I don’t like to say ‘No’ to that, sir,’ he’ said, “but I can t 
shake hands till it’s clear what we mean by’t. I was wrong 
when I spoke as if you’d done me an injury knowingly, but 
5 1 wasn’t wrong in what I said before, about your behaviour t 
Hetty, and I can’t shake hands with you as if I held you my 
friend the same as ever, till you’ve cleared that up better. 

Arthur swallowed his pride and resentment as he drew back 
his hand. He was silent for some moments, and then said, 
xo as indifferently as he could— 

“I don’t know what you mean by clearing up, Adam. 1 ve 
told you already that you think too seriously of a little flirta¬ 
tion. But if you are right in supposing there is any danger in 
it—I’m going away on Saturday, and there will be an end of 
is it. As for the pain it has given you, I’m heartily sorry for it. 
I can say no more.” . 

Adam said nothing, but rose from his chair, and stood with 
his face towards one of the windows, as if looking at the black¬ 
ness of the moonlit fir-trees; but he was in reality conscious 
20 of nothing but the conflict within him. It was of no use now 
—his resolution not to speak till to-morrow: he must speak 
there and then. But it was several minutes before he turned 
round and stepped nearer to Arthur, standing and looking down 
on him as he lay. 

2s “ It’ll be better for me to speak plain, he said, with evi¬ 

dent effort, “though it’s hard work. You see, sir, this isn’t 
a trifle to me, whatever it may be to you. I’m none o them 
men as can go making love first to one woman and then t’ 
another, and don’t think it much odds which of ’em I take. 
3 o What I feel for Hetty’s a different sort o’ love, such as I 
believe nobody can know much about but them as feel it, and 
God as has given it to ’em. She’s more nor everything else 
to me, all but my conscience and my good name. And if 
it’s true what you’ve been saying all along—and if it’s only 
35 been trifling and flirting as you call it, as ’ll be put an end 
to by your going away—why, then, I d wait, and hope her 
heart ’ud turn "to me after all. I’m loath to think you’d 


A DILEMMA 


331 


speak false to me, and I'll believe your word, however things 
may look/ 

“You would be wronging Hetty more than me not to be¬ 
lieve it/’ said Arthur, almost violently, starting up from 
the ottoman, and moving away. But he threw himself into 5 
a chair again directly, saying, more feebly, “You seem to 
forget that, in suspecting me, you are casting imputations 
upon her.” 

“ Nay, sir,” Adam said, in a calmer voice, as if he were half 
relieved—for he was too straightforward to make a distinction id 
between a direct falsehood and an indirect one—“Nay, sir, 
things don’t lie level between Hetty and you. You’re acting 
with your eyes open, whatever you may do; but how do you 
know what’s been in her mind ? She’s all but a child—as any 
man with a conscience in him ought to feel bound to take care 15 
on. And whatever you may think, I know you’ve disturbed 
her mind. I know she’s been fixing her heart on you; for 
there’s a many things clear to me now as I didn’t understand 
before. But you seem to make light o’ what she may feel— 
you don’t think o’ that.” .20 

“Good God, Adam, let me alone!” Arthur burst out im¬ 
petuously; “ I feel it enough without your worrying me.” 

He was aware of his indiscretion as soon as the words had 
escaped him. 

“Well, then, if you feel it,” Adam rejoined, eagerly; “if 25 
you feel as you may ha’ put false notions into her mind, and 
made her believe as you loved her, when all the while you 
meant nothing, I’ve this demand to make of you;—I’m not 
speaking for myself, but for her. I ask you t’ undeceive her 
before you go away. Y’ aren’t going away for ever; and if 30 
you leave her behind with a notion in her head o’ your feeling 
about her the same as she feels about you, she’ll be hankering 
after you, and the mischief may get worse. It may be a smart 
to her now, but it’ll save her pain i’ th’ end. I ask you to 
write a letter—you may trust to my seeing as she gets it:.35 
tell her the truth, and take blame to yourself for behaving as 
you’d no right to do to a young woman as isn’t your equal. 


332 


ADAM BEDE 


I speak plain, sir; but I can’t speak any other way. There’s 
nobody can take care o’ Hetty in this thing but me.” 

“I can do what I think needful in the matter,” said Arthur, 
more and more irritated by mingled distress and perplexity, 
5 “without giving promises to you. I shall take what measures 
I think proper.” 

“No,” said Adam, in an abrupt decided tone, “that won’t 
do. I must know what ground I’m treading on. I must be 
safe as you’ve put an end to what ought never to ha’ been 
io begun. I don’t forget what’s owing to you as a gentleman; 
but in this thing we’re man and man, and I can’t give up.” 

There was no answer for some moments. Then Arthur said, 
“ I’ll see you to-morrow. I can bear no more now; I’m ill.” 
He rose as he spoke, and reached for his cap, as if intending 
15 to go. 

“You won’t see her again!” Adam exclaimed, with a flash 
of recurring anger and suspicion, moving towards the door 
and placing his back against it. “ Either tell me she can never 
be my wife—tell me you’ve been lying—or else promise me 
20 what I’ve said.” 

Adam, uttering this alternative, stood like a terrible fate 
before Arthur, who had moved forward a step or two, and 
now stopped, faint, shaken, sick in mind and body. It seemed 
long to both of them—that inward struggle of Arthur’s— 
25 before he said, feebly, “I promise; let me go.” 

Adam moved away from the door and opened it, but when 
Arthur reached the step, he stopped again and leaned against 
the door-post. 

“You’re not well enough to walk alone, sir,” said Adam. 
30 “Take my arm again.” 

Arthur made no answer, and presently walked on, Adam 
following. But, after a few steps, he stood still again, and 
said, coldly, “I believe I must trouble you. It’s getting 
late now, and there may be an alarm set up about me at 
35 home.” 

Adam gave his arm, and they walked on without uttering 
a word, till they came where the basket and the tools lay. 


A DILEMMA 


333 


“I must pick up the tools, sir,” Adam said. “They’re my 
brother’s. I doubt they’ll be rusted. If you’ll please to wait 
a minute.” 

Arthur stood still without speaking, and no other word 
passed between them till they were at the side entrance, where 5 
he hoped to get in without being seen by any one. He said 
then, “Thank you; I needn’t trouble you any further.” 

“What time will it be conven’ent for me to see you to¬ 
morrow, sir?” said Adam. 

“You may send me word that you’re here at five o’clock,” 10 
said Arthur; “not before.” 

“Good-night, sir,” said Adam. But he heard no reply; 
Arthur had turned into the house. 


CHAPTER XXIX 

THE NEXT MORNING 

Arthur did not pass a sleepless night; he slept long and 
well. For sleep comes to the perplexed—if the perplexed are 
only weary enough. But at seven he rang his bell and aston¬ 
ished Pym by declaring he was going to get up, and must have 
s breakfast brought to him at eight. 

“And see that my mare is saddled at half-^ast eight, and 
tell my grandfather when he’s down that I m better this 
morning, and am gone for a ride.” 

He had been awake an hour, and could rest in bed no longer, 
io In bed our yesterdays are too oppressive: if a man can only 
get up, though it be but to whistle or to smoke, he has a 
present which offers some resistance to the past—sensations 
which assert themselves against tyrannous memories. And 
if there were such a thing as taking averages of feeling, it 
15 would certainly be found that in the hunting and shooting 
seasons regret, self-reproach, and mortified pride, weigh 
lighter on country gentlemen than in late spring and summer. 
Arthur felt that he should be more of a man on horseback. 
Even the presence of Pym, waiting on him with the usual 
20 deference, was a reassurance to him after the scenes of yester¬ 
day. For, with Arthur’s sensitiveness to opinion, the loss of 
Adam’s respect was a shock to his self-contentment which 
suffused his imagination with the sense that he had sunk in 
all eyes; as a sudden shock of fear from some real peril makes 
25 a nervous woman afraid even to step, because all her percep¬ 
tions are suffused with a sense of danger. 

Arthur’s, as you know, was a loving nature. Deeds of 
kindness were as easy to him as a bad habit: they were the 
common issue of his weaknesses and good qualities, of his 

334 



THE NEXT MORNING 


335 


egoism and his sympathy. He didn’t like to witness pain, 
and he liked to have grateful eyes beaming on him as the 
giver of pleasure. When he was a lad of seven, he one day 
kicked down an old gardener’s pitcher of broth, from no 
motive but a kicking impulse, not reflecting that it was the s 
old man’s dinner; but on learning that sad fact, he took his 
favourite pencil-case and a silver-hafted knife out of his pocket 
and offered them as compensation. He had been the same 
Arthur ever since, trying to make all offences forgotten in 
benefits. If there were any bitterness in his nature, it could 10 
only show itself against the man who refused to be conciliated 
by him. And perhaps the time was come for some of that 
bitterness to rise. At the first moment, Arthur had felt pure 
distress and self-reproach at discovering that Adam’s happi¬ 
ness was involved in his relation to Hetty: if there had been is 
a possibility of making Adam tenfold amends—if deeds of 
gift, or any other deeds, could have restored Adam’s content¬ 
ment and regard for him as a benefactor, Arthur would not 
only have executed them without hesitation, but would have 
felt bound all the more closely to Adam, and would never 20 
have been weary of making retribution. But Adam could re¬ 
ceive no amends; his suffering could not be cancelled; his 
respect and affection could not be recovered by any prompt 
deeds of atonement. He stood like an immovable obstacle 
against which no pressure could avail; an embodiment of 25 
what Arthur most shrank from believing in—the irrevocable¬ 
ness of his own wrongdoing. The words of scorn, the refusal 
to shake hands, the mastery asserted over him in their last 
conversation in the Hermitage—apove all, the sense of having 
been knocked down, to which a man does not very well rec- 30 
oncile himself, even under the most heroic circumstances— 
pressed on him with a galling pain which was stronger than 
compunction. Arthur would so gladly have persuaded him¬ 
self that he had done no harm! And if no one had told him 
the contrary, he could have persuaded himself so much better, 35 
°Nemesis can seldom forge a sword for herself out of our con¬ 
sciences—out of the suffering we feel in the suffering we may 


ADAM BEDE 


336 

have caused: there is rarely metal enough there to make an 
effective weapon. Our moral sense learns the manners of good 
society, and smiles when others smile; but when some rude 
person gives rough names to our actions, she is apt to take 
s part against us. And so it was with Arthur: Adam’s judg¬ 
ment of him, Adam’s grating words, disturbed his self-sooth¬ 
ing arguments. 

Not that Arthur had been at ease before Adam’s dis¬ 
covery. Struggles and resolves had transformed themselves 
10 into compunction and anxiety. He was distressed for Hetty’s 
sake, and distressed for his own, that he must leave her be¬ 
hind. He had always, both in making and breaking resolu¬ 
tions, looked beyond his passion, and seen that it must speed¬ 
ily end in separation; but his nature was too ardent and ten- 
15 der for him not to suffer at this parting; and on Hetty’s 
account he was filled with uneasiness. He had found out the 
dream in which she was living—that she was to be a lady in 
silks and satins; and when he had first talked to her about his 
going away, she had asked him tremblingly to let her go with 
20 him and be married. It was his painful knowledge of this 
which had given the most exasperating sting to Adam’s 
reproaches. He had said no word with the purpose of deceiv¬ 
ing her, her vision was all spun by her own childish fancy; 
but he was obliged to confess to himself that it wds spun half 
25 out of his own actions. And to increase the mischief, on this 
last evening he had not dared to hint the truth to Hetty: he 
had been obliged to soothe her with tender, hopeful words, lest 
he should throw her into violent distress. He felt the situa¬ 
tion acutely; felt the sorro|7 of the dear thing in the present, 
30 and thought with a darker anxiety of the tenacity which her 
feelings might have in the future. That was the one sharp 
point which pressed against him; every other he could evade 
by hopeful self-persuasion. The whole thing had been secret; 
the Poysers had not the shadow of a suspicion. No one, 
35 except Adam, knew anything of what had passed—no one 
else was likely to know; for Arthur had impressed on Hetty 
that it would be fatal to betray, by word or look, that there 


THE NEXT MORNING 


337 


had been the least intimacy between them; and Adam, who 
knew half their secret, would rather help them to keep it than 
betray it. It was an unfortunate business altogether, but 
there was no use in making it worse than it was, by imaginary 
exaggerations and forebodings of evil that might never come. 5 
The temporary sadness for Hetty was the worst consequence; 
he resolutely turned away his eyes from any bad consequence 
that was not demonstrably inevitable. But—but Hetty might 
have had the trouble in some other way if not in this. And 
perhaps hereafter he might be able to do a great deal for her, 10 
and make up to her for all the tears she would shed about him. 
She would owe the advantage of his care for her in future years 
to the sorrow she had incurred now. So good comes out of 
evil. Such is the beautiful arrangement of things! 

Are you inclined to ask whether this can be the same 15 
Arthur who, two months ago, had that freshness of feeling, 
that delicate honour which shrinks from wounding even a 
sentiment, and does not contemplate any more positive offence 
as possible for it?—who thought that his own self-respect was 
a higher tribunal than any external opinion ? The same, I 20 
assure you, only under different conditions. Our deeds deter¬ 
mine us, as much as we determine our deeds; and until we 
know what has been or will be the peculiar combination of out¬ 
ward with inward facts, which constitutes a man’s critical 
actions, it will be better not to think ourselves wise about his 25 
character. There is a terrible coercion in our deeds which may 
first turn the honest man into a deceiver, and then reconcile 
him to the change; for this reason—that the second wrong 
presents itself to him in the guise of the only practicable right. 
The action which before commission has been seen with that 30 
blended common-sense and fresh untarnished feeling which is 
the healthy eye of the soul, is looked at afterwards with the 
lens of apologetic ingenuity, through which all things that 
men call beautiful and ugly are seen to be made up of textures 
very much alike. Europe adjusts itself to a °fait accompli, 35 
and so does an individual character,—until the placid adjust¬ 
ment is disturbed by a convulsive retribution. 


338 ADAM BEDE 

No man can escape this vitiating effect of an offence against 
his own sentiment of right, and the effect was the stronger in 
Arthur because of that very need of self-respect which, while 
his conscience was still at ease, was one of his best safeguards, 
s Self-accusation was too painful to him—he could not face it. 
He must persuade himself that he had not been very much to 
blame; he began even to pity himself for the necessity he 
was under of deceiving Adam: it was a course so opposed to 
the honesty of his own nature. But then, it was the only right 

io thing to do. ..... 

Well, whatever had been amiss m him, he was miserable 
enough in consequence: miserable about Hetty: miserable 
about this letter that he had promised to write, and that 
seemed at one moment to be a gross barbarity, at another per- 
15 haps the greatest kindness he could do to her. And across all 
this reflection would dart every now and then a sudden im¬ 
pulse of passionate defiance towards all consequences: he 
would carry Hetty away, and all other considerations might 
go to ... . 

20 In this state of mind the four walls of his room made an 
intolerable prison to him; they seemed to hem in and press 
down upon him all the crowd of contradictory thoughts and con¬ 
flicting feelings, some of which would fly away in the open air. 
He had only an hour or two to make up his mind in, and he 
25 must get clear and calm. Once on Megs back, in the fresh air 
of that fine morning, he should be more master of the situation. 

The pretty creature arched her bay neck in the sunshine, 
and pawed the gravel, and trembled with pleasure when her 
master stroked her nose, and patted her, and talked to her 
30 even in a more caressing tone than usual. He loved her the 
better because she knew nothing of his secrets. But Meg was 
quite as well acquainted with her master’s mental state as 
many others of her sex with the mental condition of the nice 
1 young gentlemen towards whom their hearts are in a state of 
35 fluttering expectation. 

Arthur cantered for five miles beyond the Chase, till he 
was at the foot of a hill where there were no hedges or ttees to 


THE NEXT MORNING 


339 


hem in the road. Then he threw the bridle on Meg’s neck, 
and prepared to make up his mind. 

Hetty knew that their meeting yesterday must be the last 
before Arthur went away; there was no possibility of their 
contriving another without exciting suspicion; and she was 5 
like a frightened child, unable to think of anything, only able 
to cry at the mention of parting, and then put her face up to 
have the tears kissed away. He could do nothing but com¬ 
fort her, and lull her into dreaming on. A letter would be a 
dreadfully abrupt way of awakening her! Yet there was ic 
truth in what Adam said—that it would save her from a 
lengthened delusion, which might be worse than a sharp im¬ 
mediate pain. And it was the only way of satisfying Adam, 
who must be satisfied, for more reasons than one. If he could 
have seen her again! But that was impossible; there was 15 
such a thorny hedge of hindrances between them, and an im¬ 
prudence would be fatal. And yet, if he could see her again, 
what good would it do? Only cause him to suffer more 
from the sight of her distress and the remembrance of it. 
Away from him she was surrounded by all the motives to 20 
self-control. 

A sudden dread here fell like a shadow across his imagina¬ 
tion—the dread lest she should do something violent in her 
grief; and close upon that dread came another, which deep¬ 
ened the shadow. But he shook them off with the force of 25 
youth and hope. What was the ground for painting the future 
in that dark way? It was just as likely to be the reverse. 
Arthur told himself, he did not deserve that things should 
turn out badly—he had never meant beforehand to do any¬ 
thing his conscience disapproved—he had been led on by cir-30 
cumstances. There was a sort of implicit confidence in him 
that he was really such a good fellow at bottom, Providence 
would not treat him harshly. 

At all events, he couldn’t help what would come now: all 
he could do was to take what seemed the best course at the 35 
present moment. And he persuaded himself that that course 
was to make the way open between Adam and Hetty. Her 


ADAM BEDE 


34° 

heart might really turn to Adam, as he said, after a while; 
and in that case there woiifd have been no great harm done, 
since it was still Adam’s ardent wish to make her his wife. 
To be sure, Adam was deceived—deceived in a way that 
s Arthur would have resented as a deep wrong if it had been 
practised on himself. That was a reflection that marred the 
consoling prospect. Arthur’s cheeks even burned in mingled 
shame and irritation at the thought. But what could a man 
do in such a dilemma? He was bound in honour to say no 
10 word that could injure Hetty: his first duty was to guard her. 
He would never have told or acted a lie on his own account. 
Good God! what a miserable fool he was to have brought him¬ 
self into such a dilemma; and yet, if ever a man had excuses, 
he had. (Pity that consequences are determined not by ex- 
15 cuses but by actions!) 

Well, the letter must be written; it was the only means 
that promised a solution of'the difficulty. The tears came 
into Arthur’s eyes as he thought of Hetty reading it; but it 
would be almost as hard for him to write it: he was not doing 
20 anything easy to himself; and this last thought helped him 
to arrive at a conclusion. He could never deliberately have 
taken a step which inflicted pain on another and left himself 
at ease. Even a movement of jealousy at the thought of giv¬ 
ing up Hetty to Adam, went to convince him that he was 
25 making a sacrifice. 

When once he had come to this conclusion, he turned Meg 
round, and set off home again in a canter. The letter should 
be written the first thing, and the rest of the day would be 
filled up with other business: he should have no time to look 
30 behind him. Happily Irwine and Gawaine were coming to 
dinner, and by twelve o’clock the next day he should have left 
the Chase miles behind him. There was some security in this 
constant occupation against an uncontrollable impulse seizing 
him to rush to Hetty and thrust into her hand some mad prop- 
35 osition that would undo everything. Faster and faster went 
the sensitive Meg, at every slight sign from her rider, till the 
canter had passed into a swift gallop. 


THE NEXT MORNING 


34i 


“I thought they said th’ young mester war took ill last 
night,” said sour old John, the groom, at dinner-time in the 
servants’ hall. “He’s been tidin’ fit to split the mare i’ two 
this forenoon.” 

“That’s happen one o’ the symptims, John,” said the face- 5 
tious coachman. 

“Then I wish he war let blood for’t, that’s all,” said John, 
grimly. 

Adam had been early at the Chase to know how Arthur 
was, and had been relieved from all anxiety about the effects 10 
of his blow by learning that he was gone out for a ride. At 
five o’clock he was punctually there again, and sent up word 
of his arrival. In a few minutes Pym came down with a letter 
in his hand, and gave it to Adam, saying that the Captain was 
too busy to see him, and had written everything he had to 15 
say. The letter was directed to Adam, but he went out of 
doors again before opening it.- It contained a sealed en¬ 
closure directed to Hetty. On the inside of the cover Adam 
read:— 

“In the enclosed letter I have written everything you wish. 20 
I leave it to you to decide whether you will be doing best to 
deliver it to Hetty or to return it to me. Ask yourself once 
more whether you are not taking a measure which may pain 
her more than mere silence. 

“There is no need for our seeing each other again now. 25 
We shall meet with better feelings some months hence. 

A. D.” 

“Perhaps he’s i’ th’ right on ’t not to see me,” thought 
Adam. “It’s no use meeting to say more hard words, and 
it’s no use meeting to shake hands and say we’re friends again. 30 
We’re not friends, an’ it’s better not to pretend it. I know 
forgiveness is a man’s duty, but, to my thinking, that can 
only mean as you’re to give up all thoughts o’ taking revenge: 
it can never mean as you’re t’ have your old feelings back 
again, for that’s not possible. He’s not the same man to me, 35 
and I can’t feel the same towards him. God help me! I don’t 


ADAM BEDE 


342 

know whether I feel the same towards anybody: I seem as if 
Pd been measuring my work from a false line, and had got it 
all to measure over again.” 

But the question about delivering the letter to Hetty soon 
5 absorbed Adam’s thoughts. Arthur had procured some relief 
to himself by throwing the decision on Adam with a warning; 
and Adam, who was not given to hesitation, hesitated here. 
He determined to feel his way—to ascertain as well as he 
could what was Hetty’s state of mind before he decided on 
10 delivering the letter. 


CHAPTER XXX 

THE DELIVERY OF THE LETTER 

The next Sunday Adam joined the Poysers on their way 
out of church, hoping for an invitation to go home with them. 
He had the letter in his pocket, and was anxious to have an 
opportunity of talking to Hetty alone. He could not see her 
face at church, for she had changed her seat, and when he 5 
came up to her to shake hands, her manner was doubtful and 
constrained. He expected this, for it was the first time she had 
met him since she had been aware that he had seen her with 
Arthur in the Grove. 

“Come, you’ll go on with us, Adam,” Mr. Poyser said when 10 
they reached the turning; and as soon as they were in the 
fields Adam ventured to offer his arm to Hetty. The children 
soon gave them an opportunity of lingering behind a little, 
and then Adam said— 

“Will you contrive for me to walk out in the garden a bit 15 
with you this evening, if it keeps fine, Hetty ? I’ve something 
partic’lar to talk to you about.” 

Hetty said, “Very well.” She was really as anxious as 
Adam was that she should have some private talk with him: 
she wondered what he thought of her and Arthur: he must 20 
have seen them kissing, she knew, but she had no conception 
of the scene that had taken place between Arthur and Adam. 
Her first feeling had been that Adam would be very angry 
with her, and perhaps would tell her aunt and uncle; but it 
never entered her mind that he would dare to say anything to 25 
Captain Donnithorne. It was a relief to her that he behaved 
so kindly to her to-day, and wanted to speak to her alone; 
for she had trembled when she found he was going home with 
them lest he should mean “to tell.” But, now he wanted to 


343 


344 


ADAM BEDE 


talk to her by herself, she should learn what he thought, and 
what he meant to do. She felt a certain confidence that she 
could persuade him not to do anything she did not want him 
to do; she could perhaps even make him believe that she 
S didn’t care for Arthur; and as long as Adam thought there 
was any hope of her having him, he would do just what she 
liked, she knew\ Besides, she must go on seeming to encour¬ 
age Adam, lest her uncle and aunt should be angry, and sus¬ 
pect her of having some secret lover, 
io Hetty’s little brain was busy with this combination, as she 
hung on Adam’s arm, and said “yes” or “no” to some slight 
observations of his about the many hawthorn-berries there 
would be for the birds this next winter, and the low-hanging 
clouds that would hardly hold up till morning. And when they 
is rejoined her aunt and uncle, she could pursue her thoughts 
without interruption, for Mr. Poyser held that though a 
young man might like to have the woman he was courting on 
his arm, he would nevertheless be glad of a little reasonable 
talk about business the while; and, for his own part, he was 
20 curious to hear the most recent news about the Chase Farm. 
So, through the rest of the walk, he claimed Adam’s conversa¬ 
tion for himself; and Hetty laid her small plots, and imagined 
her little scenes of cunning blandishment, as she walked along 
by the hedgerows on honest Adam’s arm, quite as well as if 
25 she had been an elegantly-clad coquette alone in her boudoir. 
For if a country beauty in clumsy shoes be only shallow- 
hearted enough, it is astonishing how closely her mental pro¬ 
cesses may resemble those of a lady in society and crinoline, 
who applies her refined intellect to the problem of committing 
30 indiscretions without compromising herself. Perhaps the 
resemblance was not much the less because Hetty felt very 
unhappy all the while. The parting with Arthur was a double 
pain to her; mingling with the tumult of passion and vanity, 
there was a dim undefined fear that the future might shape 
35 itself in some way quite unlike her dream. She clung to the 
comforting hopeful words Arthur had uttered in their last 
meeting—“I shall come again at Christmas, and then we will 


THE DELIVERY OF THE LETTER 


345 


see what can be done.” She clung to the belief that he was so 
fond of her, he would never be happy without her; and she 
still hugged her secret—that a great gentleman loved her—• 
with gratified pride, as a superiority over all the girls she 
knew. But the uncertainty of the future, the possibilities 5 
to which she could give no shape, began to press upon her like 
the invisible weight of air; she was alone on her little island 
of dreams, and all around her was the dark unknown water 
where Arthur was gone. She could gather no elation of spirits 
now by looking forward, but only by looking backward to 10 
build confidence on past words and caresses. But occasion¬ 
ally, since Thursday evening, her dim anxieties had been 
almost lost behind the more definite fear that Adam might 
betray what he knew to her uncle and aunt, and his sudden 
proposition to talk with her alone had set her thoughts to 15 
work in a new way. She was eager not to lose this evening’s 
opportunity; and after tea, when the boys were going into 
the garden, and Totty begged to go with them, Hetty said, 
with an alacrity that surprised Mrs. Poyser— 

“I’ll go with her, aunt.” 20 

It did not seem at all surprising that Adam said he would 
go too; and soon he and Hetty were left alone together on the 
walk by the °filbert-trees, while the boys were busy elsewhere 
gathering the large unripe nuts to play at °“cob-nut” with, 
and Totty was watching them with a puppy-like air of contem- 25 
plation. It was but a short time—hardly two months—since 
Adam had had his mind filled with delicious hopes, as he stood 
by Hetty’s side in this garden. The remembrance of that 
scene had often been with him since Thursday evening: the 
sunlight through the apple-tree boughs, the red bunches, 30 
Hetty’s sweet blush. It came importunately now, on this 
sad evening, with the low-hanging clouds; But he tried to 
suppress it, lest some emotion should impel him to say more 
than was needful for Hetty’s sake. 

“After what I saw on Thursday night, Hetty,” he began, 35 
“you won’t think me making too free in what I’m going to 
say. If you was being courted by any man as ’ud make you 


ADAM BEDE 


346 

his wife, and I’d known you was fond of him, and meant to 
have him, I should have no right to speak a word to you about 
it; but when I see you’re being made love to by a gentleman 
as can never marry you, and doesna think o’ marrying you, 
5 I feel bound t’ interfere for you. I can’t speak about it to 
them as are i’ the place o’ your parents, for that might bring 
worse trouble than’s needful.” 

Adam’s words relieved one of Hetty’s fears, but they also 
carried a meaning which sickened her with a strengthened 
10 foreboding. She was pale and trembling, and yet she would 
have angrily contradicted Adam, if she had dared to betray 
her feelings. But she was silent. 

“You’re so young, you know, Hetty,” he went on, almost 
tenderly, “and y’ haven’t seen much o’ what goes on in the 
15 world. It’s right for me to do what I can to save you from 
getting into trouble for want o’ your knowing where you’re 
being led to. If anybody besides me knew what I know about 
your meeting a gentleman, and having fine presents from 
him, they’d speak light on you, and you’d lose your character. 
20 And besides that, you’ll have to suffer in your feelings, wi’ 
giving your love to a man as can never marry you, so as he 
might take care of you all your life.” 

Adam paused, and looked at Hetty, Who was plucking the 
leaves from the filbert-trees, and tearing them up in her hand. 
25 Her little plans and preconcerted speeches had all forsaken 
her, like an ill-learnt lesson, under the terrible agitation pro¬ 
duced by Adam’s words. There was a cruel force in their calm 
certainty which threatened to grapple and crush her flimsy 
hopes and fancies. She wanted to resist them—she wanted to 
30 throw them off with angry contradiction; but the determina¬ 
tion to conceal what she felt still governed her. It was noth¬ 
ing more than a blind prompting now, for she was unable to 
calculate the effect of her words. 

“You’ve no right to say as I love him,” she said, faintly, 
35 but impetuously, plucking another rough leaf and tearing it 
up. She was very beautiful in her paleness and agitation, 
with her dark childish eyes dilated, and her breath shorter 


THE DELIVERY OF THE LETTER 


347 

than usual. Adam’s heart yearned over her as he looked at 
her. Ah, if he could but comfort her, and soothe her, and 
save her from this pain; if he had but some sort of strength 
that would enable him to rescue her poor troubled mind, as 
he would have rescued her body in the face of all danger! 5 
“I doubt it must be so, Hetty,” he said, tenderly; “for I 
canna believe you’d let any man kiss you by yourselves, and 
give you a gold box with his hair, and go a-walking i’ the Grove 
to meet him, if you didna love him. I’m not blaming you, 
for I know it ’ud begin by little and little, till at last you’d 10 
not be able to throw it off. It’s him I blame for stealing your 
love i’ that way, when he knew he could never make you the 
right amends. He’s been trifling with you, and making a 
plaything of you, and caring nothing about you as a man 
ought to care.” 15 

“Yes, he does care for me; I know better nor you,” Hetty 
burst out. Everything was forgotten but the pain and anger 
she felt at Adam’s words. 

“Nay, Hetty,” said Adam, “if he’d cared for you rightly 
he’d never ha’ behaved so. He told me himself he meant 20 
nothing by his kissing and presents, and he wanted to make 
me believe as you thought light of ’em too. But I know better 
nor tljat. I can’t help thinking as you’ve been trusting to his 
loving you well enough to marry you, for all he’s a gentleman. 
And that’s why I must speak to you about it, Hetty,—for fear 25 
you should be deceiving yourself. It’s never entered his 
head the thought o’ marrying you.” 

“How do you know? How durst you say so?” said Hetty, 
pausing in her walk and trembling. The terrible decision of 
Adam’s tone shook her with fear. She had no presence of30 
mind left to the reflection that Arthur would have his reasons 
for not telling the truth to Adam. Her words and look were 
enough to determine Adam: he must give her the letter. 

“ Perhaps you can’t believe me, Hetty; because you think 
too well of him—because you think he loves you better than 35 
he does. But I’ve got a letter i’ my pocket, as he wrote him¬ 
self for me to give you. I’ve not read the letter, but he says 


ADAM BEDE 


348 

he’s told you the truth in it. But before I give you the letter, 
consider, Hetty, and don’t let it take too much hold on you. 
It wouldna ha’ been good for you if he’d wanted to do such a 
mad thing as marry you: it ’ud ha’ led to no happiness 1 th’ 
5 end.” | 

Hetty said nothing: she felt a revival of hope at the mention 
of a letter which Adam had not read. There would be some¬ 
thing quite different in it from what he thought. 

Adam took out the letter, but he held it in his hand still, 
10 while he said, in a tone of tender entreaty— 

t “Don’t you bear me ill-will, Hetty, because I’m the means 
o’ bringing you this pain. God knows I’d ha’ borne a good 
deal worse for the sake o’ sparing it you. And think—there’s 
nobody but me knows about this; and I’ll take care of you 
15 as if I was your brother. You’re the same as ever to me, for 
I don’t believe you’ve done any wrong knowingly.” 

Hetty had laid her hand on the letter, but Adam did not 
loose it till he had done speaking. She took no notice of what 
he said—she had not listened; but when he loosed the letter, 
20 she put it into her pocket, without opening it, and then began 
to walk more quickly, as if she wanted to go in. 

“You’re in the right not to read it just yet,” said Adam. 
“ Read it when you’re by yourself. But stay out a little bit 
longer, and let us call the children: you look so white and ill; 
25 your aunt may take notice of it.” 

Hetty heard the warning. It recalled to her the necessity 
of rallying her native powers of concealment, which had half 
given way under the shock of Adam’s words. And she had the 
letter in her pocket: she was sure there was comfort in that 
30 letter in spite of Adam. She ran to find Totty, and soon re¬ 
appeared with recovered colour, leading Totty, who was mak- 
mg a sour face, because she had been obliged to throw away 
an unripe apple that she had set her small teeth in. 

“Hegh, Totty,” said Adam, “come and ride on my shoulder 
35 —ever so high—you’ll touch the tops o’ the trees.” 

What little child ever refused to be comforted by that 
glorious sense of being seized strongly and swung upward ?° I 


THE DELIVERY OF THE LETTER 


349 


don’t believe Ganymede cried when the eagle carried him away, 
and perhaps deposited him on Jove’s shoulder at the end. 
Totty smiled down complacently from her secure height, and 
pleasant was the sight to the mother’s eyes, as she stood at 
the house door and saw Adam coming with his small burthen, s 

“Bless your sweet face, my pet,” she said, the mother’s 
strong love filling her keen eyes with mildness, as Totty 
leaned forward and put out her arms. She had no eyes for 
Hetty at that moment, and only said, without looking at her, 
“You go and draw some ale, Hetty: the gells are both at the io 
cheese.” 

After the ale had been drawn and her uncle’s pipe lighted, 
there was Totty to be taken to bed, and brought down again 
in her night-gown, because she would cry instead of going to 
sleep. Then there was supper to be got ready, and Hetty 15 
must be continually in the way to give help. Adam stayed 
till he knew Mrs. Poyser expected him to go, engaging her 
and her husband in talk as constantly as he could, for the sake 
of leaving Hetty more at ease. He lingered, because he 
wanted to see her safely through that evening, and he was 20 
delighted to find how much self-command she showed. He 
knew she had not had time to read the letter, but he did not 
know she was buoyed up by a secret hope that the letter would 
contradict everything he had said. It was hard work for him 
to leave her—hard to think that he should not know for days 25 
how she was bearing her trouble. But he must go at last, 
and all he could do was to press her hand gently as he said 
“Good-bye,” and hope she would take that as a sign that if 
his love could ever be a refuge for her, it was there the same 
as ever. How busy his thoughts were, as he walked home, in 30 
devising pitying excuses for her folly; in referring all her 
weakness to the sweet lovingness of her nature; in blaming 
Arthur, with less and less inclination to admit that his con¬ 
duct might be extenuated too! His exasperation at Hetty’s 
suffering—and also at the sense that she was possibly thrust 35 
for ever out of his own reach—deafened him to any plea for 
the miscalled friend who had wrought this misery. Adam 


350 


ADAM BEDE 


was a clear-sighted, fair-minded man—a fine fellow, indeed, 
morally as well as physically. But if Aristides the Just was 
ever in love and jealous, he was at that moment not perfectly 
magnanimous. And I cannot pretend that Adam, in these 
5 painful days, felt nothing but righteous indignation and loving 
pity. He was bitterly jealous; and in proportion as his love 
made him indulgent in his judgment of Hetty, the bitterness 
found a vent in his feeling towards Arthur. 

“Her head was allays likely to be turned/’ he thought, 
io“when a gentleman, with his fine manners, and fine clothes, 
and his white hands, and that way o’ talking gentlefolks have, 
came about her, making up to her in a bold way, as a man 
couldn’t do that was only her equal; and it’s much if she’ll 
ever like a common man now.” He could not help drawing 
is his own hands out of his pocket, and looking at them—at the 
hard palms and the broken finger-nails. “I’m a roughish 
fellow, altogether: I don’t know, now I come to think on’t, 
what there is much for a woman to like about me; and yet I 
might ha’ got another wife easy enough, if I hadn’t set my 
20 heart on her. But it’s little matter what other women think 
about me, if she can’t love me. She might ha’ loved me, per¬ 
haps, as likely as any other man—there’s nobody hereabouts 
as I’m afraid of; if he hadn’t come between us; but now I shall 
belike be hateful to her because I’m so different to him. And 
25 yet there’s no telling—she may turn round the other way, 
when she finds he’s made light of her all the while. She may 
come to feel the vally of a man as ’ud be thankful to be bound 
to her all his life. But I must put up with it whichever way 
it is—I’ve only to be thankful it’s been no worse: I am not 
30 th’ only man that’s got to do without much happiness i’ this 
life. There’s many a good bit o’ work done with a sad heart. 
It’s God’s will, and that’s enough for us: we shouldn’t know 
better how things ought to be than He does, I reckon, if we 
was to spend our lives i’ puzzling. But it ’ud ha’ gone near to 
35 spoil my work for me, if I’d seen her brought to sorrow and 
shame, and through the man as I’ve always been proud to 
think on. Since I’ve been spared that, I’ve no right to grumble. 


THE DELIVERY OF THE LETTER 


351 


When a man’s got his limbs whole, he can bear a smart cut 
or. two.” 

As Adam was getting over a stile at this point in his reflec¬ 
tions, he perceived a man walking along the field before him. 
He knew it was Seth, returning from an evening preaching, 5 
and made haste to overtake him. 

“I thought thee’dst be at home before me,” he said, as 
Seth turned round to wait for him, “for I’m later than usual 
to-night.” 

“Well, I’m later too, for I got into talk, after meeting, with 10 
John Barnes, who has lately professed himself in a state of 
perfection, and I’d a question to ask him about his experience. 
It’s one o’ them subjects that lead you further than y’ expect 
—they don’t lie along the straight road.” 

They walked along together in silence two or three minutes. 15 
Adam was not inclined to enter into the subtleties of religious 
experience, but he was inclined to interchange a word or two 
of brotherly affection and confidence with Seth. That was a 
rare impulse in him, much as the brothers loved each other. 
They hardly ever spoke of personal matters, or uttered more 20 
than an allusion to their family troubles. Adam was by 
nature reserved in all matters of feeling, and Seth felt a certain 
timidity towards his more practical brother. 

“Seth, lad,” Adam said, putting his arm on his brother’s 
shoulder, “ hast heard anything from Dinah Morris since she 25 
went away?” 

“Yes,” said Seth. “She told me I might write her word 
after a while, how we went on, and how mother bore up under 
her trouble. So I wrote to her a fortnight ago, and told her 
about thee having a new employment, and how mother was 30 
more contented; and last Wednesday, when I called at the 
post at Treddles’on I found a letter from her. I think thee’dst 
perhaps like to read it; but I didna say anything about it, 
because thee’st seemed so full of other things. It’s quite easy 
t’ read—she writes wonderful for a woman.” 35 

Seth had drawn the letter from his pocket and held it out 
to Adam, who said, as he took it— 


ADAM BEDE 


352 

“Ay, lad, I’ve got a tough load to carry just now—thee 
mustna take it ill if I’m a bit silenter and crustier nor usual. 
Trouble doesna make me care the less for thee. I know we 
shall stick together to the last.” 

5 “I take nought ill o’ thee, Adam: I know well enough what 
it means if thee’t a bit short wi’ me now and then.” 

“There’s mother opening the door to look out for us,”^said 
Adam, as they mounted the slope. “ She’s been sitting i the 
dark as usual. Well, Gyp, well! art glad to see me?” 

10 Lisbeth went in again quickly and lighted a candle, for she 
had heard the welcome rustling of footsteps on the grass, 
before Gyp’s joyful bark. 

“Eh, my lads! th’ hours war ne’er so long sin’ I war born 
as they’n been this blessed Sunday night. What can ye 

15 both ha’ been doin’ till this time?” 

“Thee shouldstna sit i’ the dark, mother,” said Adam; 
“that makes the time seem longer.” 

“Eh, what am I to do wi’ burnin’ candle of a Sunday, when 
there’s on’y me, an’ it’s sin to do a bit o’ knittin’? The day- 

20 light’s long enough for me to stare i’ the booke as I canna 
read. It ’ud be a fine way o’ shortenin’ the time, to make it 
waste the good candle. But which on you’s for ha’in’ supper? 
Ye mun ayther be °clemmed or full, I should think, seein’ 
what time o’ night it is.” 

25 “I’m hungry, mother,” said Seth, seating himself at the 
little table, which had been spread ever since it was light. 

“I’ve had my supper,” said Adam. “Here, Gyp,” he 
added, taking some cold potato from the table, and rubbing 
the rough grey head that looked up towards him. 

30 “Thee needstna be gi’in’ th’ dog,” said Lisbeth: “I’n fed 
him well a’ready. I’m not like to forget him, I reckon, when 
he’s all o’ thee I can get sight on.” 

“Come, then, Gyp,” said Adam, “we’ll go to bed. Good¬ 
night, mother; I’m very tired.” 

35 “What ails him, dost know?” Lisbeth said to Seth, when 
Adam was gone up-stairs. “He’s like as if he was struck for 
death this day or two—he’s so cast down. I found him i’ 


THE DELIVERY OF THE LETTER 


353 

the shop this forenoon, arter thee wast gone, a-sittin’ an’ doin , 
nothin’—not so much as a booke afore him.” 

“He’s a deal o’ work upon him just now, mother,” said Seth, 
“and I think he’s a bit troubled in his mind. Don’t you take 
notice of it, because it hurts him when you do. Be as kind to 5 
him as you can, mother, and don’t say anything to vex him.” 

“Eh, what dost talk o’ my vexin’ him? an’ what am I like 
to be but kind? I’ll ma’ him a kettle-cake for breakfast i’ the 
mornin’.” 

Adam, meanwhile, was reading Dinah’s letter by thejight of 10 
his dip candle. 

“Dear Brother Seth, —Your letter lay three days beyond 
my knowing of it at the Post, for I had not money enough by 
me to pay the carriage, this being a time of great need and 
sickness here, with the rains that have fallen, as if the °win- 15 
dows of heaven were opened again; and to lay by money, from 
day to day, in such a time, when there are so many in present 
need of all things, would be a want of trust like the °laying up 
of the manna. I speak of this, because I would not have you 
think me slow to answer, or that I had small joy in your re- 20 
joicing at the worldly good that has befallen your brother 
Adam. The honour and love you bear him is nothing but 
meet, for God has given him great gifts, and he uses them °as 
the patriarch Joseph did, who, when he was exalted to a place 
of power and trust, yet yearned with tenderness towards his 25 
parent and his younger brothe r . 

“My heart is knit to your aged mother since it was granted 
me to be near her in the day of trouble. Speak to her of me, 
and tell her I often bear her in my thoughts at evening time, 
when I am sitting in the dim light as I did with her, and we 30 
held one another’s hands, and I spoke the words of comfort 
that were given to me. Ah, that is a blessed time, isn’t it, 
Seth, when the outward light is fading, and the body is a 
little wearied with its work and its labour. Then the °in- 
ward light shines the brighter, and we have a deeper sense of 35 
resting on the Divine strength. I sit on my chair in the dark 


354 


ADAM BEDE 


room and close my eyes, and it is as if I was out of the body 
and could feel no want for evermore. For then, the very hard¬ 
ship, and the sorrow, and the blindness, and the sin, I have 
beheld and been ready to weep over,—yea, all the anguish of 
5 the children of men, which sometimes wraps me round like 
sudden darkness—I can bear with a willing pain, as if I was 
°sharing the Redeemers cross. For I feel it, I feel it—infinite 
love is suffering too—yea, in the fulness of knowledge it suffers, 
it yearns, it mourns; and that is a blind self-seeking which 
io wants to be freed from the sorrow wherewith the whole crea¬ 
tion groaneth and travaileth. Surely it is not true blessedness 
to be free from sorrow, while there is sorrow and sin in the 
world: sorrow is then a part of love, and love does not seek to 
throw it off. It is not the spirit only that tells me this—I see 
15 it in the whole work and word of the gospel. Is there not 
pleading in heaven? °Is not the Man of Sorrows there in that 
crucified body wherewith He ascended ? 0 And is He not one 
with the Infinite Love itself—as our love is one with our 
sorrow? 

20 “These thoughts have been much borne in on me of late, 
and I have seen with new clearness the meaning of those 
words, ° £ If any man love me, let him take up my cross/ I 
have heard this enlarged on as if it meant the troubles and 
persecutions we bring on ourselves by confessing Jesus. But 
25 surely that is a narrow thought. The true cross of the Re¬ 
deemer was the sin and sorrow of this world —that was what 
lay heavy on his heart—and that is the cross we shall share 
with him, that is °the cup we must drink of with him, if we 
would have any part in that Divine Love which is one with 
30 his sorrow. 

“ In my outward lot, which you ask about,. I have all things 
and abound. I have had constant work in the mill, though 
some of the other hands have been turned off for a time; and 
my body is greatly strengthened, so that I feel little weariness 
35 after long walking and speaking. What you say about stay¬ 
ing in your own country with your mother and brother shows 
me that you have a true guidance: your lot is appointed there 


THE DELIVERY OF THE LETTER 


355 


by a clear showing, and to seek a greater blessing elsewhere 
would be like °laying a false offering on the altar and expect¬ 
ing the fire from heaven to kindle it. My work and my joy 
are here among the hills, and I sometimes think I cling too 
much to my life among the people here, and should be rebel- 5 
lious if I was called away. 

“ I was thankful for your tidings about the dear friends at 
the Hall Farm; for though I sent them a letter, by my aunt’s 
desire, after I came back from my sojourn among them, I 
have had no word from them. My aunt has not the °pen of a 10 
ready writer, and the °work of the house is sufficient for the 
day, for she is weak in body. My heart cleaves to her and 
her children as the nearest of all to me in the flesh; yea, and 
to all in that house. I am carried away to them continually 
in my sleep, and often in the midst of work, and even of 15 
speech, the thought of them is borne in on me as if they were in 
need and trouble, which yet is dark to me. There may be some 
leading here; but I wait to be taught. You say they are alljwell. 

“We shall see each other again in the body, I trust,— 
though, it may be, not for a long while; for the brethren and 20 
sisters at Leeds are desirous to have me for a short space 
among them, when I have a door opened me again to leave 
Snowfield. 

“Farewell, dear brother—and yet not farewell. For those 
children of God whom it has been granted to see each other 25 
face to face and to hold communion together and to feel the 
same spirit working in both, can never more be sundered, 
though the hills may lie between. For their souls are enlarged 
for evermore by that union, and they bear one another about 
in their thoughts continually as it were a new strength.— 30 
Your faithful Sister and fellow-worker in Christ, 

Dinah Morris.” 

“I have not skill to write the words so small as you do, 
and my pen moves slow. And so I am straitened, and say 
but little of what is in my mind. °Greet your mother for me 35 
with a kiss. She asked me to kiss her twice when we parted.” 


ADAM BEDE 


356 


Adam had refolded the letter, and was sitting meditatively 
with his head resting on his arm at the head of the bed, when 
Seth came up-stairs. 

“Hast read the letter?” said Seth. 

5 “Yes,” said Adam. “I don’t know what I should ha 
thought of her and her letter if I’d never seen her: I daresay 
I should ha’ thought a preaching woman hateful. But she s 
one as makes everything seem right she says and does, and 
I seemed to see her and hear her speaking when I read the let- 
10 ter. It’s wonderful how I remember her looks and her voice. 
She’d make thee rare and happy, Seth; she’s just the woman 


“It’s no use thinking o’ that,” said Seth, despondingly. 
“She spoke so firm, and she’s not the woman to say one thing 
is and mean another.” 

“Nay, but her feelings may grow different. A woman may 
get to love by degrees—the best fire doesna flare up the soon¬ 
est. I’d have thee go and see her by-and-by: I’d make it 
convenient for thee to be away three or four days, and it ud 
20 be no walk for thee—only between twenty and thirty mile.” 

“I should like to see her again, whether or no, if she 
wouldna be displeased with me for going,” said Seth. 

“She’ll be none displeased,” said Adam, emphatically, 
getting up and throwing off his coat. “It might be a great 
25 happiness to us all, if she’d have thee, for mother took to her 
so wonderful, and seemed so contented to be with her.” 

“Ay,” said Seth, rather timidly, “and Dinah’s fond o’ 
Hetty too; she thinks a deal about her.” 

Adam made no reply to that, and no other word but “good- 
30 night” passed between them. 


CHAPTER XXXI 
in hetty’s bed-chamber 

It was no longer light enough to go to bed without a candle, 
even in Mrs. Poyser’s early household, and Hetty carried 
one with her as she went up at last to her bedroom soon after 
Adam was gone, and bolted the door behind her. 

Now she would read the letter. It must—it must have com- 5 
fort in it. How was Adam to know the truth ? It was always 
likely he should say what he did say. 

She set down the candle, and took out the letter. It had 
a faint scent of roses, which made her feel as if Arthur were 
close to her. She put it to her lips, and a rush of remembered 10 
sensations for a moment or two swept away all fear. But her 
heart began to flutter strangely, and her hands to tremble as 
she broke the seal. She read slowly; it was not easy for her 
to read a gentleman’s handwriting, though Arthur had taken 
pains to write plainly. 15 

“ Dearest Hetty, —I have spoken truly when I have said 
that I loved you, and I shall never forget our love. I shall 
be your true friend as long as life lasts, and I hope to prove 
this to you in many ways. If I say anything to pain you in 
this letter, do not believe it is for want of love and tenderness 20 
towards you, for there is nothing I would not do for you, if 
I knew it to be really for your happiness. I cannot bear to 
think of my little Hetty shedding tears when I am not there 
to kiss them away; and if I followed only my own incli¬ 
nations, I should be with her at this moment instead of 25 
writing. It is very hard for me to part from her—harder still 
for me to write words which may seem unkind, though they 
spring from the truest kindness. 

357 


ADAM BEDE 


358 

“ Dear, dear Hetty, sweet as our love has been to me, sweet 
as it would be to me for you to love me always, I feel that it 
would have been better for us both if we had never had that 
happiness, and that it is my duty to ask you to love me and 
s care for me as little as you can. The fault has all been mine, 
for though I have been unable to resist the longing to be near 
you, I have felt all the while that your affection for me might 
cause you grief. I ought to have resisted my feelings. I 
should have done so, if I had been a better fellow than I am; 
io but now, since the past cannot be altered, I am bound to save 
you from any evil that I have power to prevent. And I feel 
it would be a great evil for you if your affections continued so 
fixed on me that you could think of no other man who might 
be able to make you happier by his love than I ever can, and 
is if you continued to look towards something in the future which 
cannot possibly happen. For, dear Hetty, if I were to do what 
you one day spoke of, and make you my wife, I should do what 
you yourself would come to feel was for your misery instead 
of your welfare. I know you can never be happy except by 
20 marrying a man in your own station; and if I were to marry 
you now, I should only be adding to any wrong I have done, 
besides offending against my duty in the other relations of 
life. You know nothing, dear Hetty, of the world in which I 
must always live, and you would soon begin to dislike me, 
25 because there would be so little in which we should be alike. 

“And since I cannot marry you, we must part—we must 
try not to feel like lovers any more. I am miserable while I say 
this, but nothing else can be. Be angry with me, my sweet 
one, I deserve it; but do not believe that I shall not always 
30 care for you—always be grateful to you—always remember my 
Hetty; and if any trouble should come that we do not now 
foresee, trust in me to do everything that lies in my power. 

“ I have told you where you are to direct a letter to, if you 
want to write, but I put it down below lest you should have 
35 forgotten. Do not write unless there is something I can 
really do for you; for, dear Hetty, we must try to think of 
each other as little as we can. Forgive me, and try to forget 


IN HETTY'S BED-CHAMBER 


359 


everything about me, except that I shall be, as long as I live, 
your affectionate friend, “Arthur Donnithorne.” 

Slowly Hetty had read this letter; and when she looked up 
from it there was the reflection of a blanched face in the old 
dim glass—a white marble face with rounded childish forms, 5 
but with something sadder than a child’s pain in it. Hetty 
did not see the face—she saw nothing—she only felt that she 
was cold and sick and trembling. The letter shook and rustled 
in her hand. She laid it down. It was a horrible sensation— 
this cold and trembling: it swept away the very ideas that 10 
produced it, and Hetty got up to reach a warm cloak from her 
clothes-press, wrapped it round her, and sat as if she were 
thinking of nothing but getting warm. Presently she took up 
the letter with a firmer hand, and began to read it through 
again. The tears came this time—great rushing tears, that 15 
blinded her and blotched the paper. She felt nothing but that 
Arthur was cruel—cruel to write so, cruel not to marry her. 
Reasons why he could not marry her had no existence for her 
mind; how could she believe in any misery that could come 
to her from the fulfilment of all she had been longing for and 20 
dreaming of? She had not the ideas that could make up the 
notion of that misery. 

As she threw down the letter again, she caught sight of her 
face in the glass; it was reddened now, and wet with tears; 
it was almost like a companion that she might complain to— 25 
that would pity her. She leaned forward on her elbows, and 
looked into those dark overflooding eyes, and at that quiver¬ 
ing mouth, and saw how the tears came thicker and thicker, 
and how the mouth became convulsed with sobs. 

The shattering of all her little dream-world, the crushing 30 
blow on her new-born passion, afflicted her pleasure-craving 
nature with an overpowering pain that annihilated all im¬ 
pulse to resistance, and suspended her anger. She sat sobbing 
till the candle went out, and then, wearied, aching, stupefied 
with crying, threw herself on the bed without undressing, and 35 
went to sleep. 


ADAM BEDE 


360 

There was a feeble dawn in the room when Hetty awoke, 
a little after four o’clock, with a sense of dull misery, the cause 
of which broke upon her gradually, as she began to discern 
the objects round her in the dim light. And then came the 
s frightening thought that she had to conceal her misery, as 
well as to bear it, in this dreary daylight that was coming. She 
could lie no longer: she got up and went towards the table: 
there lay the letter; she opened her treasure-drawer: there 
lay the earrings and the locket—the signs of all her short 
10 happiness—the signs of the life-long dreariness that was to 
follow it. Looking at the little trinkets which she had once 
eyed and fingered so fondly as the earnest of her future para¬ 
dise of finery, she lived back in the moments when they had 
been given to her with such tender caresses, such strangely 
15 pretty words, such glowing looks, which filled her with a be¬ 
wildering delicious surprise—they were so much sweeter than 
she had thought anything could be. And the Arthur who had 
spoken to her and looked at her in this way, who was present 
with her now—whose arm she felt round her, his cheek against 
20 hers, his very breath upon her—was the cruel, cruel Arthur 
who had written that letter:—that letter which she snatched 
and crushed and then opened again, that she might read it 
once more. The half-benumbed mental condition which was 
the effect of the last night’s violent crying, made it necessary 
25 to her to look again and see if her wretched thoughts were 
actually true—if the letter was really so cruel. She had to 
hold it close to the window, else she could not have read it by 
the faint light. Yes! it was worse—it was more cruel. She 
crushed it up again in anger. She hated the writer of that 
30 letter—hated him for the very reason that she hung upon him 
with all her love—all the girlish passion and vanity that made 
up her love. 

She had no tears this morning. She had wept them all away 
last night, and now she felt that dry-eyed morning misery, 
35 which is worse than the first shock, because it has the future 
in it as well as the present. Every morning to come, as far as 
her imagination could stretch, she would have to get up and 


IN HETTY’S BED-CHAMBER 


361 


feel that the day would have no joy for her. For there is no 
despair so absolute as that which comes with the first moments 
of our first great sorrow, when we have not yet known what it 
is to have suffered and be healed, to have despaired and to 
have recovered hope. As Hetty began languidly to take off 5 
the clothes she had worn all the night, that she might wash 
herself and brush her hair, she had a sickening sense that her 
life would go on in this way: she should always be doing 
things she had no pleasure in, getting up to the old tasks of 
work, seeing people she cared nothing about, going to church, 10 
and to Treddleston, and to tea with Mrs. Best, and carrying 
no happy thought with her. For her short poisonous delights 
had spoiled for ever all the little joys that had once made the 
sweetness of her life—the new frock ready for Treddleston 
fair, the party at Mr. Britton’s at Broxton wake, the beaux 15 
that she would say “No” to for a long while, and the prospect 
of the wedding that was to come at last when she would have 
a silk gown and a great many clothes all at once. These things 
were all flat and dreary to her now: everything would be a 
weariness: and she would carry about for ever a hopeless 20 
thirst and longing. 

She paused in the midst of her languid undressing, and 
leaned against the dark old clothes-press. Her neck and arms 
were bare, her hair hung down in delicate rings; and they 
were just as beautiful as they were that night two months 25 
ago, when she walked up and down this bed-chamber glowing 
with vanity and hope. She was not thinking of her neck and 
arms now; even her own beauty was indifferent to her. Her 
eyes wandered sadly over the dull old chamber, and then 
looked out vacantly towards the growing dawn. Did a 30 
remembrance of Dinah come across her mind?—of her fore¬ 
boding words, which had made her angry?—of Dinah’s affec¬ 
tionate entreaty to think of her as a friend in trouble? No, 
the impression had been too slight to recur. Any affection or 
comfort Dinah could have given her would have been as in- 35 
different to Hetty this morning as everything else was except 
her bruised passion. She was only thinking she could never 


ADAM BEDE 


362 

stay here and go on with the old life—she could better bear 
something quite new than sinking back into the old everyday 
round. She would like to run away that very morning, and 
never see any of the old faces again. But Hetty’s was not a 
s nature to face difficulties—to dare to loose her hold on the 
familiar, and rush blindly on some unknown condition. Hers 
was a luxurious and vain nature, not a passionate one; and 
if she were ever to take any violent measure, she must be 
urged to it by the desperation of terror. There was not much 
10 room for her thoughts to travel in the narrow circle of her 
imagination, and she soon fixed on the one thing she would 
do to get away from her old life: she would ask her uncle to 
let her go to be a lady’s-maid. Miss Lydia’s maid would 
help her to get a situation, if she knew Hetty had her uncle’s 
15 leave. 

When she had thought of this, she fastened up her hair and 
began to wash: it seemed more possible to her to go down¬ 
stairs and try to behave as usual. She would ask her uncle 
this very day. On Hetty’s blooming health it would take a 
20 great deal of such mental suffering as hers to leave any deep 
impress; and when she was dressed as neatly as usual in her 
working-dress, with her hair tucked up under her little cap, 
an indifferent observer would have been more struck with the 
young roundness of her cheek and neck, and the darkness of 
25 her eyes and eyelashes, than with any signs of sadness about 
her. But when she took up the crushed letter and put it in 
her drawer, that she might lock it out of sight, hard smarting 
tears, having no relief in them as the great drops had that 
fell last night, forced, their way into her eyes. She wiped 
30them away quickly: she must not cry in the day-time: no¬ 
body should find out how miserable she was, nobody should 
know she was disappointed about anything; and the thought 
that the eyes of her aunt and uncle would be upon her, gave 
her the self-command which often accompanies a great dread. 
35 For Hetty looked out from her secret misery towards the possi¬ 
bility of their ever knowing what had happened, as the sick 
and weary prisoner might think of the possible pillory. They 


IN HETTY’S BED-CHAMBER 363 

would think her conduct shameful; and shame was torture. 
That was poor little Hetty’s conscience. 

So she locked up her drawer and went away to her early work. 

In the evening, when Mr. Poyser was smoking his pipe, 
and his good-nature was therefore at its superlative moment, 5 
Hetty seized the opportunity of her aunt’s absence to say—• 

“Uncle, I wish you’d let me go for a lady’s-maid.” 

Mr. Poyser took the pipe from his mouth, and looked at 
Hetty in mild surprise for some moments. She was sewing, 
and went on with her work industriously. 10 

“Why, what’s put that into your head, my wench?” he said 
at last, after he had given one conservative puff. 

“ I should like it—I should like it better than farm-work.” 

“Nay, nay; you fancy so because you donna know it, my 
wench. It wouldn’t be half so good for your health, nor for is 
your luck i’ life. I’d like you to stay wi’ us till you’ve got a 
good husband: you’re my own niece, and I wouldn’t have 
you go to service, though it was a gentleman’s house, as long 
as I’ve got a home for you.” 

Mr. Poyser paused, and puffed away at his pipe. 20 

“I like the needlework,” said Hetty, “and I should get good 
wages.” 

“Has your aunt been a bit sharp wi’ you?” said Mr. 
Poyser, not noticing Hetty’s further argument. “You mustna 
mind that, my wench—she does it for your good. She wishes 25 
you well; an’ there isn’t many aunts as are no kin to you ’ud 
ha’ done by you as she has.” 

“No, it isn’t my aunt,” said Hetty, “but I should like the 
work better.” 

“It was all very well for you to learn the work a bit—an’ 30 
I gev my consent to that fast enough, sin’ Mrs. Pomfret was 
willing to teach you. For if anything was t’ happen, it’s 
well to know how to turn your hand to different sorts o’ things. 
But I niver meant you to go to service, my wench; my 
family’s ate their own bread and cheese as fur back as any-35 
body knows, hanna they, father? You wouldna like your 
grandchild to take wage?” 


364 


ADAM BEDE 


“Na-a-y,” said old Martin, with an elongation of the word, 
meant to make it bitter as well as negative, while he leaned 
forward and looked down on the floor. ‘‘But the wench takes 
arter her mother. I’d hard work t’ hould her in, an’ she mar- 
s ried i’ spite o’ me—a feller wi’ on’y two head o’ stock when 
there should ha’ been ten on’s farm—she might well die o’ th’ 
inflammation afore she war thirty.” 

It was seldom the old man made so long a speech; but his 
son’s question had fallen like a bit of dry fuel on the embers of 
10 a long unextinguished resentment, which had always made 
the grandfather more indifferent to Hetty than to his son’s 
children. Her mother’s fortune had been spent by that 
good-for-nought Sorrel, and Hetty had Sorrel’s blood in her 
veins. 

is “Poor thing, poor thing!” said Martin the younger, who 
was sorry to have provoked this retrospective harshness. 
“She’d but bad luck. But Hetty’s got as good a chance o’ 
getting a solid, sober husband as any gell i’ this country.” 

After throwing out this pregnant hint, Mr. Poyser recurred 
20 to his pipe and his silence, looking at Hetty to see if she did 
not give some sign of having renounced her ill-advised wish. 
But instead of that, Hetty, in spite of herself, began to cry, 
half out of ill-temper at the denial, half out of the day’s re¬ 
pressed sadness. 

25 “Hegh, hegh!” said Mr. Poyser, meaning to check her 
playfully, “don’t let’s have any crying. Crying’s for them as 
ha’ got no home, not for them as want to get rid o’ one. What 
dost think?” he continued to his wife, who now came back 
into the house-place, knitting with fierce rapidity, as if that 
30 movement were a necessary function, like the twittering of a 
crab’s antennae. 

“Think?—why, I think we shall have the fowl stole before 
we are much older, wi’ that gell forgetting to lock the pens 
up o’ nights. What’s the matter now, Hetty? What are you 
35 crying at?” 

“Why, she’s been wanting to go for a lady’s-maid,” said 
Mr. Poyser. “I tell her we can do better for her nor that.” 


IN HETTY’S BED-CHAMBER 


365 

“I thought she’d got some maggot in her head, she’s gone 
about wi’ her mouth buttoned up so all day. It’s all wi’ going 
so among them servants at the Chase, as we war fools for let¬ 
ting her. She thinks it ’ud be a finer life than being wi’ them 
as are akin to her, and ha’ brought her up sin’ she war nos 
bigger nor Marty. She thinks there’s nothing belongs to being 
a lady’s-maid but wearing finer clothes nor she was born to, 
I’ll be bound. It’s what rag she can get to stick on her as she’s 
thinking on from morning till night; as I often ask her if she 
wouldn’t like to be the mawkin i’ the field, for then she’d be 10 
made o’ rags inside and out. I’ll never gi’ my consent to her 
going for a lady’s-maid, while she’s got good friends to take 
care on her till she’s married to somebody better nor one o’ 
them valets, as is neither a common man nor a gentleman, an’ 
must live on the fat o’ the land, an’s like enough to stick his 15 
hands under his coat tails and expect his wife to work for him.” 

“Ay, ay,” said Mr. Poyser, “we must have a better hus¬ 
band for her nor that, and there’s better at hand. Come, my 
wench, give over crying, and get to bed. I’ll do better for you 
nor letting you go for a lady’s-maid. Let’s hear no more on’t.” 20 
When Hetty was gone up-stairs he said— 

“I canna make it out as she should want to go away, for I 
thoug'ht she’d got a mind t’ Adam Bede. She’s looked like 
it o’ late.” 

“Eh, there’s no knowing what she’s got a liking to, for 25 
things take no more hold on her than if she was a dried pea. 

I believe that gell, Molly—as is aggravatin’ enough, for the 
matter o’ that—but I believe she’d care more about leaving us 
and the children, for all she’s been here but a year come 
Michaelmas, nor Hetty would. But she’s got this notion o’ 30 
being a lady’s-maid wi’ going among them servants—we 
might ha’ known what it ’ud lead to when we let her go to 
learn the fine work. But I’ll put a stop to it pretty quick.” 

“Thee’dst be sorry to part wi’ her, if it wasn’t for her good,” 
said Mr. Poyser. “She’s useful to thee i’ the work.” 35 

“Sorry? yes; I’m fonder on her nor she deserves—a little 
hard-hearted hussey, wanting to leave us i’ that way. I 


ADAM BEDE 


366 

can’t ha’ had her about me these seven year, I reckon, and 
done for her, and taught her everything, wi’out caring 
about her. .An’ here I m having linen spun, an thinking 
all the while it’ll make sheeting and table-clothing for her 
5 when she’s married, an’ she’ll live i’ the parish wi’ us, and 
never go out of our sights like a fool as I am for thinking 
aught about her, as is no better nor a cherry wi’ a hard stone 

inside it.” „ 

“Nay, nay, thee mustna make much of a trifle, said Mr. 
10 Poyser, soothingly. “She’s fond on us, I’ll be bound; but 
she’s young, an’ gets things in her head as she can t rightly 
give account on. Them young fillies ’ull run away often 
wi’out knowing why.” 

Her uncle’s answers, however, had had another effect on 
15 Hetty besides that of disappointing her and making her 
cry. She knew quite well whom he had in his mind in his 
allusions to marriage, and to a sober, solid husband; and 
when she was in her bedroom again, the possibility of her 
marrying Adam presented itself to her in a new light. In a 
20 mind where no strong sympathies are at work, where there is 
no supreme sense of right to which the agitated nature can 
cling and steady itself to quiet endurance, one of the first 
results of sorrow is a desperate vague clutching after any deed 
that will change the actual condition. Poor Hetty’s vision 
2s of consequences, at no time more than a narrow fantastic 
calculation of her own probable pleasures and pains, was now 
quite shut out by reckless irritation under present suffering, 
and she was ready for one of those convulsive, motiveless 
actions by which wretched men and women leap from a tem- 
30 porary sorrow into a life-long misery. 

Why should she not marry Adam? She did not care what 
she did, so that it made some change in her life. She felt 
confident that he would still want to marry her, and any 
further thought about Adam’s happiness in the matter had 
35 never yet visited her. 

“Strange!” perhaps you will say, “this rush of impulse 
towards a course that might have seemed the most repugnant 


IN HETTY'S BED-CHAMBER 367 

to her present state of mind, and in only the second night of 
her sadness!” 

Yes, the actions of a little trivial soul like Hetty’s, strug¬ 
gling amidst the serious, sad destinies of a human being, are 
strange. So are the motions of a little vessel without ballast 5 
tossed about on a stormy sea. How pretty it looked with its 
parti-coloured sail in the sunlight, moored in the quiet bay! 

“Let that man bear the loss who loosed it from its moor- 
ings.” 

But that will not save the vessel—the pretty thing that 10 
might have been a lasting joy. 


CHAPTER XXXII 

MRS. POYSER “HAS HER SAY OUT 




The next Saturday evening there was much excited dis¬ 
cussion at the Donnithorne Arms concerning an incident 
which had occurred that very day no less than a second 
appearance of the smart man in top-boots, said by some to 
sbe a mere farmer in treaty for the Chase Farm, by others 
to be the future steward; but Mr. Casson himselr, the per¬ 
sonal witness to the stranger’s visit, pronounced contemp¬ 
tuously to be nothing better than a bailiff, such as hatched 
had been before him. No one had thought of denying 
jo Mr. Casson’s testimony to the fact that he had seen the 
stranger, nevertheless he proffered various corroborating cir¬ 
cumstances. . , , 

“I see him myself,” he said; “I see him coming along by 
the Crab-tree meadow on a bald-faced hoss. I’d just been t 
is hev a pint—it was half after ten i’ the forenoon, when I hev 
my pint as reg’lar as the clock—and I says tt) Knowles, as 
druv up with his waggon, ‘You’ll get a bit o barley to-day, 
Knowles,’ I says, ‘if you look about you; and then 1 went 
round by the rick-yard, and towart the Treddles on road; 
20 and just as I come up by the big ash-tree, I see the man 1 
top-boots coming along on a bald-faced hoss 1 wish 1 may 
never stir if I didn’t. And I stood still till he come up, and I 
says, ‘Good morning, sir,’ I says, for I wanted to hear the 
turn of his tongue, as I might know whether he^was a this- 
2 S country-man; so I says, ‘Good morning, sir: it’ll ’old hup for 
the barley this morning, I think. There’ll be a bit got hin, 
if we’ve good luck.’ And he says, ‘ Eh, ye may be^raight, 
there’s noo tailin’,’ he says; and I knowed by that ’—here 
Mr. Casson gave a wink—“as he didn’t come from a hun- 

- 368 




MRS. POYSER “HAS HER SAY OUT” 369 

dred mile off. I daresay he’d think me a hodd talker, as you 
Loamshire folks allays does hany one as talks the right 
language.” 

“The right language!” said Bartle Massey, contemptu¬ 
ously. “You’re about as near the right language as a pig’s 5 
squeaking is like a tune played on a key-bugle.” 

“Well, I don’t know,” answered Mr. Casson, with an angry 
smile. “I should think a man as has lived among the gentry 
from a by, is likely to know what’s the right language pretty 
nigh as well as a schoolmaster.” 10 

“Ay, ay, man,” said Bartle, with a tone of sarcastic con¬ 
solation, “you talk the right language for you. When Mike 
Holdsworth’s goat says ba-a-a, it’s all right—it ’ud be unnat¬ 
ural for it to make any other noise.” 

The rest of the party being Loamshire men, Mr. Casson 15 
had the laugh strongly against him, and wisely fell back on 
the previous question, which, far from being exhausted in a 
single evening, was renewed in the church-yard, before serv¬ 
ice, the next day, with the fresh interest conferred on all 
news when there is a fresh person to hear it; and that fresh 20 
hearer was Martin Poyser, who, as his wife said, “never went. 
Boozin’ with that set at Casson’s, a-sittin’ soakin’-in drink, 
and looking as wise as a lot o’ cod-fish wi’ red faces.” 

It was probably owing to the conversation she had had 
with her husband on their way from church, concerning this 25- 
problematic stranger, that Mrs. Poyser’s thoughts imme¬ 
diately reverted to him when, a day or two afterwards, as 
she was standing at the house-door with her knitting, in that 
eager leisure which came to her when the afternoon cleaning 
was done, she saw the old Squire enter the yard on his black 30 
pony, followed by John the groom. She always cited it after¬ 
wards as a case of prevision, which really had something more 
in it than her own remarkable penetration, that the moment 
she set eyes on the Squire, she said to herself, “I shouldna 
wonder if he’s come about that man as is a-going to take the 35 
Chase Farm, wanting Poyser to do something for him without 
pay. But Poyser’s a fool if he does.” 


ADAM BEDE 


37° 

Something unwonted must clearly be in the wind, for the 
old Squire’s visits to his tenantry were rare; and though 
Mrs. Poyser had during the last twelvemonth recited many 
imaginary speeches, meaning even more than met the ear, 
5 which she was quite determined to make to him the next time 
he appeared within the gates of the Hall Farm, the speeches 
had always remained imaginary. 

“Good-day, Mrs. Poyser,” said the old Squire, peering at 
her with his short-sighted eyes—a mode of looking at her 
10which, as Mrs. Poyser observed, “allays aggravated her: it 
was as if you was a insect, and he was going to dab his finger¬ 
nail on you.” 

However, she said, “Your servant, sir,” and curtsied with 
an air of perfect deference as she advanced towards him: °she 
15 was not the woman to misbehave towards her betters, and 
fly in the face of the catechism, without severe provocation. 

“Is your husband at home, Mrs. Poyser?” 

“Yes, sir; he’s only i’ the rick-ylard. I’ll send for him in a 
minute, if you’ll please to get down and step in.” 

20 “Thank you; I will do so. I want to consult him about a 
little matter; but you are quite as much concerned in it, if 
not more. I must have your opinion too.” 

“Hetty, run and tell your uncle to come in,” said Mrs. 
Poyser, as they entered the house, and the old gentleman 
25 bowed low in answer to Hetty’s curtsy; while Totty, con¬ 
scious of a pinafore stained with gooseberry jam, stood hiding 
her face against the clock, and peeping round furtively. 

“What a fine old kitchen this is!” said Mr. Donnithorne, 
looking round admiringly. He always spoke in the same delib- 
3 oerate, well-chiselled, polite way, whether his words were 
sugary or venomous. “And you keep it so exquisitely clean, 
Mrs. Poyser. I like these premises, do you know, beyond any 
on the estate.” 

“Well, sir, since you’re fond of ’em, I should be glad if 
35 you’d let a bit o’ repairs be done to ’em, for the boarding’s 
i’ that state, as we’re like to be eaten up wi’ rats and mice; 
and the cellar, you may stan’ up to your knees i’ water in’t, 



MRS. POYSER “HAS HER SAY OUT ” 371 

if you like to go down; but perhaps you’d rather believe my 
words. Won’t you please to sit down, sir?” 

“Not yet; I must see your dairy. I have not seen it for 
years, and' I hear on all hands about your fine cheese and 
butter,” said the Squire, looking politely unconscious that 5 
there could be any question on which he and Mrs. Poyser 
might happen to disagree. “I think I see the door open, 
there: you must not be surprised if I cast a covetous eye on 
your cream and butter. I don’t expect that Mrs. Satchell’s 
cream and butter will bear comparison with yours.” 10 

“I can’t say, sir, I’m sure. It’s seldom I see other folks’s 
butter, though there’s some on it as one’s no need to see— 
the smell’s enough.” 

“Ah, now this I like,” said Mr. Donnithorne, looking round 
at the damp temple of cleanliness, but keeping near the door, is 
“I’m sure I should like my breakfast better if I knew the 
butter and cream came from this dairy. Thank you, that 
really is a pleasant sight. Unfortunately, my slight tendency to 
rheumatism makes me afraid of damp: I’ll sit down in your 
comfortable kitchen. Ah, Poyser, how do you do? In the midst 20 
of business, I see, as usual. I’ve been looking at your wife’s 
beautiful dairy—the best manager in the parish, is she not?” 

Mr. Poyser had just entered in shirt-sleeves and open waist¬ 
coat, with a face a shade redder than usual, from the exertion 
of “pitching.” As he stood, red, rotund, and radiant, before 25 
the small, wiry, cool, old gentleman, he looked like a prize 
apple by the side of a withered crab. 

“Will you please to take this chair, sir?” he said, lifting 
his father’s arm-chair forward a little: “you’ll find it easy.” 

“No, thank you, I never sit in easy-chairs,” said the old 30 
gentleman, seating himself on a small chair near the door. 
“Do you know, Mrs. Poyser—sit down, pray, both of you— 
I’ve been far from contented, for some time, with Mrs. Satch- 
ell’s dairy management. I think she has not a good method, 
as you have.” 35 

“Indeed, sir, I can’t speak to that,” said Mrs. Poyser, in a 
hard voice, rolling and unrolling her knitting, and looking 


ADAM BEDE 


372 

icily out of the window, as she continued to stand opposite 
the Squire. Poyser might sit down if he liked, she thought: 
she wasn’t going to sit down, as if she’d give in to any such 
smooth-tongued palaver. Mr. Poyser, who looked and felt 
5 the reverse of icy, did sit down in his three-cornered chair. 

“And now, Poyser, as Satchell is laid up, I am intending 
to let the Chase Farm to a respectable tenant. I’m tired of 
having a farm on my own hands—nothing is made the best of 
in such cases, as you know. A satisfactory bailiff is hard to 
10 find; and I think you and I, Poyser, and your excellent wife 
here, can enter into a little arrangement in consequence, which 
will be to our mutual advantage.” 

“Oh,” said Mr. Poyser, with a good-natured blankness of 
imagination as to the nature of the arrangement, 
is “ If I’m called upon to speak, sir,” said Mrs. Poyser, after 
glancing at her husband with pity at his softness, “you know 
better than me; but I don’t see what the Chase Farm is t’ us 
—we’ve cumber enough wi’ our own farm. Not but what I’m 
glad to hear o’ anybody respectable coming into the parish: 
20 there’s some as ha’ been brought in as hasn’t been looked on 
i’ that character.” 

“You’re likely to find Mr. Thurle an excellent neighbour, 
I assure you: such a one as you will feel glad to have accom¬ 
modated by the little plan I’m going to mention; especially as I 
25 hope you will find it as much to your own advantage as his.” 

“Indeed, sir, if it’s anything t’ our advantage, it’ll be the 
first offer o’ the sort I’ve heared on. It’s them as take ad¬ 
vantage that get advantage i’ this world, I think: folks have 
to wait long enough afore it’s brought to ’em.” 

30 “The fact is, Poyser,” said the Squire, ignoring Mrs. Poy- 
ser’s theory of worldly prosperity, “there is too much dairy 
land, and too little plough land, on the Chase Farm, to suit 
Thurle’s purpose—indeed, he will only take the farm on con¬ 
dition of some change in it: his wife, it appears, is not a clever 
35 dairy-woman, like yours. Now, the plan I’m thinking of is to 
effect a little exchange. If you were to have the Hollow Pas¬ 
tures, you might increase your dairy, which must be so profit- 


MRS. POYSER “HAS HER SAY OUT 


373 


able under your wife’s management; and I should request 
you, Mrs. Poyser, to supply my house with milk, cream, and 
butter, at the market prices. On the other hand, Poyser, you 
might let Thurle have the Lower and Upper Ridges, which 
really, with our wet seasons, would be a good riddance for 5 
you. There is much less risk in dairy land than corn land.” 

Mr. Poyser was leaning forward, with his elbows on his 
knees, his head on one side, and his mouth screwed up— 
apparently absorbed in making the tips of his fingers meet 
so as to represent with perfect accuracy the ribs of a ship. 10 
He was much too acute a man not to see through the whole 
business, and to foresee perfectly what would be his wife’s 
view of the subject; but he disliked giving unpleasant an¬ 
swers: unless it was on a point of farming practice, he would 
rather give up than have a quarrel, any day; and, after all, 15 
it mattered more to his wife than to him. So, after a few 
moments’ silence, he looked up at her and said mildly, “What 
dost say?” 

Mrs. Poyser had had her eyes fixed on her husband with 
cold severity during her silence, but now she turned away her 20 
head with a toss, looked icily at the opposite roof of the cow¬ 
shed, and spearing her knitting together with the loose pin, 
held it firmly between her clasped hands. 

“Say? Why, I say you may do as you like about giving 
up any o’ your corn land afore your lease is up, which it won’t 25 
be for a year come next Michaelmas, but I’ll not consent to 
take more dairy work into my hands, either for love or money; 
and there’s nayther love nor money here, as I can see, on’y 
other folks’s love o’ theirselves, and the money as it to go into 
other folks’s pockets. I know there’s them as is born t’ own 30 
the land, and them as is born to sweat on’t”—here Mrs. 
Poyser paused to gasp a little—“and I know it’s christened 
folks’s duty to submit to their betters as fur as flesh and blood 
’ull bear it; but I’ll not make a martyr o’ myself, and wear 
myself to skin and bone, and worret myself as if I was a churn 35 
wi’ butter a-coming in’t, for no landlord in England, not if 
he was King George himself.” 


374 


ADAM BEDE 


“No, no, my dear Mrs. Poyser, certainly not,” said the 
Squire, still confident in his own powers of persuasion, “you 
must not overwork yourself; but don’t you think your work 
will rather be lessened than increased in this way? There is 
S so much milk required at the Abbey, that you will have little 
increase of cheese and butter making from the addition to 
your dairy; and I believe selling the milk is the most profit¬ 
able way of disposing of dairy produce, is it not?” 

“Ay, that’s true,” said Mr. Poyser, unable to repress an 
10 opinion on a question of farming profits, and forgetting that 
it was not in this case a purely abstract question. 

“I daresay,” said Mrs. Poyser bitterly, turning her head 
half-way towards her husband, and looking at the vacant 
arm-chair—“ I daresay it’s true for men as sit i’ th’ chimney- 
15 corner and make believe as everything’s cut wi’ ins an’ outs 
to fit int’ everything else. If you could make a pudding wi’ 
thinking o’ the batter, it ’ud be easy getting dinner. How do 
I know whether the milk ’ull be wanted constant? What’s to 
make me sure as the house won’t be put o’ board wage afore 
20 we’re many months older, and then I may have to lie awake 
o’ nights wi’ twenty gallons o’ milk on my mind—and Dingall 
’ull take no more butter, let alone paying for it; and we must 
fat pigs till we’re obliged to beg the butcher on our knees to 
buy ’em, and lose half of ’em wi’ the measles. And there’s 
25 the fetching and carrying, as ’ud be welly half a day’s work for 
a man an’ hoss— that’s to be took out o’ the profits, I reckon ? 
But there’s folks ’ud hold a sieve under the pump and expect 
to carry away the water.” 

“That difficulty—about the fetching and carrying—you 
30 will not have, Mrs. Poyser,” said the Squire, who thought that 
this entrance into particulars indicated a distant inclination 
to compromise on Mrs. Poyser’s part—“Bethell will do that 
regularly with the cart and pony.” 

“Oh, sir, begging your pardon, I’ve never been used t’ 
35 having gentlefolks’s servants coming about my back places, 
a-making love to both the gells at once, and keeping ’em with 
their hands on their hips listening to all manner o’ gossip 


MRS. POYSER “HAS HER SAY OUT 


when they should be down on their knees a-scouring. If 
we’re to go to ruin, it shanna be wi’ having our back kitchen 
turned into a public.” 

“Well, Poyser,” said the Squire, shifting his tactics, and 
looking as if he thought Mrs. Poyser had suddenly withdrawn 5 
from the proceedings and left the room, “you can turn the 
Hollows into feeding-land. I can easily make another ar¬ 
rangement about supplying my house. And I shall not forget 
your readiness to accommodate your landlord as well as a 
neighbour. I know you will be glad to have your lease re- 10 
newed for three years, when the present one expires; other¬ 
wise, I daresay Thurle, who is a man of some capital, would 
be glad to take both the farms, as they could be worked so 
well together. But I don’t want to part with an old tenant 
like you.” 15 

To be thrust out of the discussion in this way would have 
been enough to complete Mrs. Poyser’s exasperation, even 
without the final threat. Her husband, really alarmed at the 
possibility of their leaving the old place where he had been 
bred and born—for he believed the old Squire had small spite 20 
enough for anything—was beginning a mild remonstrance 
explanatory of the inconvenience he should find in having to 
buy and sell more stock, with— 

“Well, sir, I think as it’s rether hard” . . . when Mrs. 
Poyser burst in with the desperate determination to have her 25 
say out this once, though it were to rain notices to quit, and 
the only shelter were the workhouse. 

“Then, sir, if I may speak—as, for all I’m a woman, and 
there’s folks as thinks a woman’s fool enough to stan’ by an’ 
look on while the men sign her soul away, I’ve a right to speak, 30 
for I make one quarter o’ the rent, and save another quarter— 

I say, if Mr. Thurle’s so ready to take farms under you, it’s a 
pity but what he should take this, and see if he likes to live in 
a house wi’ °all the plagues o’ Egypt in’t—wi’ the cellar full 
o’ water, and frogs and toads hoppin’ up the steps by dozens—• 35 
and the floors rotten, and the rats and mice gnawing every 
bit o’ cheese, and runnin’ over our heads as we lie i’ bed till 


ADAM BEDE 


376 

we expect ’em to eat us up alive—as it’s a mercy they hanna 
eat the children long ago. I should like to see if there’s 
another tenant besides Poyser as ’ud put up wi’ never having 
a bit o’ repairs done till a place tumbles down — and not then, 
5 on’y wi’ begging and praying, and having to pay half—and 
being strung up wi’ the rent as it’s much if he gets enough out 
o’ the land to pay, for all he’s put his own money into the 
ground beforehand. See if you’ll get a stranger to lead such a 
life here as that: a maggot must be born i’ the rotten cheese 
xo to like it, I reckon. You may run away from my words, sir,” 
continued Mrs. Poyser, following the old Squire beyond the 
door—for after the first moments of stunned surprise he had 
got up, and, waving his hand towards her with a smile, had 
walked out towards his pony. But it was impossible for him 
is to get away immediately, for John was walking the pony up 
and down the yard, and was some distance from the causeway 
when his master beckoned. 

“You may run away from my words, sir, and you may go 
spinnin’ underhand ways o’ doing us a mischief, for you’ve 
20 got Old Harry to your friend, though nobody else is, but I 
tell you for once as we’re not dumb creatures to be abused and 
made money on by them as ha’ got the lash i’ their hands, for 
want o’ knowing how t’ undo the tackle. An’ if Pm th’ only 
one as speaks my mind, there’s plenty o’ the same way o’ 
25 thinking i’ this parish and the next to’t, for your name’s no 
better than a brimstone match in everybody’s nose—if it 
isna two-three old folks as you think o’ saving your soul by 
giving ’em a bit o’ flannel and a drop o’ porridge. An’ you 
may be right i’ thinking it’ll take but little to save your soul, 
30 for it’ll be the smallest savin’ y’ iver made, wi’ all your 
scrapin’.” 

There are occasions on which two servant-girls and a 
waggoner may be a formidable audience, and as the Squire 
rode away on his black pony, even the gift of short-sightedness 
35 did not prevent him from being aware that Molly and Nancy 
and Tim were grinning not far from him. Perhaps he sus¬ 
pected that sour old John was grinning behind him—which 


MRS. POYSER “HAS HER SAY OUT 


377 

was also the fact. Meanwhile the bull-dog, the black-and- 
tan terrier, Alick’s sheep-dog, and the gander hissing at a 
safe distance from the pony’s heels, carried out the idea of 
Mrs. Poyser’s solo in an impressive quartette. 

Mrs. Poyser, however, had no sooner seen the pony move 5 
off than she turned round, gave the two hilarious damsels a 
look which drove them into the back kitchen, and, unspear¬ 
ing her knitting, began to knit again with her usual rapidity, 
as she re-entered the house. 

“Thee’st done it now,” said Mr. Poyser, a little alarmed 10 
and uneasy, but not without some triumphant amusement at 
his wife’s outbreak. 

“Yes, I know I’ve done it,” said Mrs. Poyser; “but I’ve 
had my say out, and I shall be th’ easier for’t all my life. 
There’s no pleasure i’ living, if you’re to be corked up for ever, 15 
and only dribble your mind out by the sly, like a leaky barrel. 

I shan’t repent saying what I think, if I live to be as old as th' 
old Squire; and there’s little likelihoods—for it seems as if 
them as aren’t wanted here are th’ only folks as aren’t wanted 
i’ th’ other world.” 20 

“But thee wutna like moving from th’ old place, this 
Michaelmas twelvemonth,” said Mr. Poyser, “and going into 
a strange parish, where thee know’st nobody. It’ll be hard 
upon us both, and upo’ father too.” 

“Eh, it’s no use worreting; there’s plenty o’ things may 25 
happen between this and Michaelmas twelvemonth. The 
Captain may be master afore then, for what we know,” said 
Mrs. Poyser, inclined to take an unusually hopeful view of an 
embarrassment which had been brought about by her own 
merit, and not by other people’s fault. 30 

“/’m none for worreting,” said Mr. Poyser, rising from his 
three-cornered chair, and walking slowly towards the door; 
“but I should be loath to leave th’ old place, and the parish 
where I was bred and born, and father afore me. We should 
leave our roots behind us, I doubt, and niver thrive again.” 35 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


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The barley was all carried at last, and the harvest suppers 
went by without waiting for the dismal black crop of beans. 
The apples and nuts were gathered and stored; the scent of 
whey departed from the farmhouses, and the scent of brew- 
s ing came in its stead. The woods behind the Chase, and all 
the hedgerow trees, took on a solemn splendour under the 
dark low-hanging skies. Michaelmas was come, with its 
fragrant basketfuls of purple damsons, and its paler purple 
daisies, and its lads and lasses leaving or seeking service, and 
io winding along between the yellow hedges, with their bundles 
under their arms. But though Michaelmas was come, Mr. 
Thurle, that desirable tenant, did not come to the Chase Farm, 
and the old Squire, after all, had been obliged to put in a 
new bailiff. It was known throughout the two parishes 
15 that the Squire’s plan had been frustrated because the 
Poysers had refused to be “put upon,” and Mrs. Poyser’s 
outbreak was discussed in all the farmhouses with a zest which 
was only heightened by frequent repetition. °The news that 
“Bony” was come back from Egypt was comparatively insip- 
20 id, and the repulse of the French in Italy was nothing to Mrs. 
Poyser’s repulse of the old Squire. Mr. Irwine had heard a 
version of it in every parishioner’s house, with the one excep¬ 
tion of the Chase. But since he had always, with marvellous 
skill, avoided any quarrel with Mr. Donnithorne, he could not 
25 allow himself the pleasure of laughing at the old gentleman’s dis¬ 
comfiture with any one besides his mother, who declared that if 
she were rich she should like to allow Mrs. Poyser a pension for 
life, and wanted to invite her to the parsonage, that she might 
hear an account of the scene from Mrs. Poyser’s own lips. 

3 7 8 


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“No, no, mother,” said Mr. Irwine; “it was a little bit of 
irregular justice on Mrs. Poyser’s part, but a magistrate like 
me must not countenance irregular justice. There must be 
no report spread that I have taken notice of the quarrel, else 
I shall lose the little good influence I have over the old man.” s 

“Well, I like that woman even better than her cream- 
cheeses,” said Mrs. Irwine. “ She has the spirit of three men, 
with that pale face of hers; and she says such sharp things 
too.” 

“Sharp! yes, her tongue is like a new-set razor. She’s io 
quite original in her talk, too; one of those untaught wits that 
help to stock a country with proverbs. I told you that capital 
thing I heard her say about Craig—that °he was like a cock, 
who thought the sun had risen to hear him crow. Now that’s 
an °i z Esop’s fable in a sentence.” is 

“But it will be a bad business if the old gentleman turns 
them out of the farm next Michaelmas, eh?” said Mrs. Ir¬ 
wine. * 

“Oh, that must not be; and Poyser is such a good tenant, 
that Donnithorne is likely to think twice, and digest his 20 
spleen rather than turn them out. But if he should give them 
notice at °Lady Day, Arthur and I must move heaven and 
earth to mollify him. Such old parishioners as they are must 
not go.” 

“ Ah, there’s no k 'wing what may happen before Lady 25 
Day,” said Mrs. Irwine. “ It struck me on Arthur’s birthday 
that the old man was a little shaken: he’s eighty-three, you 
know. It’s really an Unconscionable age. It’s only women 
who have a right to live as long as that.” 

“When they’ve got old-bachelor sons who would be for-30 
lorn without them,” said Mr. Irwine, laughing, and kissing 
his mother’s hand. 

Mrs. Poyser, too, met her husband’s occasional forebod¬ 
ings of a notice to quit with “There’s no knowing what may 
happen before Lady Day:”—one of those undeniable general 35 
propositions which are usually intended to convey a particular 
meaning very far from undeniable. But it is really too hard 


ADAM BEDE 


380 

upon human nature that it should be held a criminal offence 
to imagine the death even of the king when he is turned eighty- 
three. It is not to be believed that any but the dullest Britons 
can be good subjects under that hard condition, 
s Apart from this foreboding, things went on much as usual 
in the Poyser household. Mrs. Poyser thought she noticed a 
surprising improvement in Hetty. To be sure, the girl got 
“ closer tempered, and sometimes she seemed as if there d be 
no drawing a word from her with cart-ropes;” but she thought 
10 much less about her dress, and went after the work quite 
eagerly, without any telling. And it was wonderful how she 
never wanted to go out now—indeed, could hardly be per¬ 
suaded to go; and she bore her aunt's putting a stop to her 
weekly lesson in fine work at the Chase, without the least 
15 grumbling or pouting. 

It must be, after all, that she had set her heart on Adam at 
last, and her sudden freak of wanting to be a lady's-maid must 
have been*caused by some little pique or misunderstanding 
between them, which had passed by. For whenever Adam 
20 came to the Hall Farm, Hetty seemed to be in better spirits, 
and to talk more than at other times, though she was almost 
sullen when Mr. Craig or any other admirer happened to pay 
a visit there. ... 

Adam himself watched her at first with trembling anxiety, 
25 which gave way to surprise and delicious hope. Five days 
after delivering Arthur’s letter, he had ventured to go to the 
Hall Farm again—not without dread lest the sight of him 
might be painful to her. She was not in the house-place when 
he entered, and he sat talking to Mr. and Mrs. Poyser for a 
30 few minutes with a heavy fear on his heart that they might 
presently tell him Hetty was ill. But by-and-by there came a 
light step that he knew, and when Mrs. Poyser said, “Come, 
Hetty, where have you been?” Adam was obliged to turn 
round, though he was afraid to see the changed look there must 
35 be in her face. He almost started when he saw her smiling as 
if she were pleased to see him—looking the same as ever at a 
first glance, only that she had her cap on, which he had never 


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381 

seen her in before when he came of an evening. Still, when 
he looked at her again and again as she moved about or sat 
at her work, there was a change: the cheeks were as pink 
as ever, and she smiled as much as she had ever done of late, 
but there was something different in her eyes, in the expression 5 
of her face, in all her movements, Adam thought—something 
harder, older, less child-like. “Poor thing!” he said to him¬ 
self, “that allays likely. It’s because she’s had her first heart¬ 
ache. But she’s got a spirit to bear up under it. Thank God 
for that.” 10 

As the weeks went by, and he saw her always looking 
pleased to see him—turning up her lovely face towards him 
as if she meant him to understand that she was glad for him 
to come—and going about her work in the same equable way, 
making no sign of sorrow, he began to believe that her feelings 15 
towards Arthur must have been much slighter than he had 
imagined in his first indignation and alarm, and that she had 
been able to think of her girlish fancy that Arthur was in love 
with her and would marry her, as a folly of which she was 
timely cured. And it perhaps was, as he had sometimes in his 20 
more cheerful moments hoped it would be—her heart was 
really turning with all the more warmth towards the man 
she knew to have a serious love for her. 

Possibly you think that Adam was not at all sagacious in 
his interpretations, and that it was altogether extremely un- 25 
becoming in a sensible man to behave as he did—falling in 
love with a girl who really had nothing more than her beauty 
to recommend her, attributing imaginary virtues to her, and 
even condescending to cleave to her after she had fallen in 
love with another man, waiting for her kind looks as a patient 30 
trembling dog waits for his master’s eye to be turned upon 
him. But in so complex a thing as human nature, we must 
consider, it is hard to find rules without exceptions. Of 
course, I know that, as a rule, sensible men fall in love with 
the most sensible woman of their acquaintance, see through 35 
all the pretty deceits of coquettish beauty, never imagine 
themselves loved when they are not loved, cease loving on all 


ADAM BEDE 


382 

proper occasions, and marry the woman most fitted for them 
in every respect—indeed, so as to compel the approbation of 
all the maiden ladies in their neighbourhood. But even to 
this rule an exception will occur now and then in the lapse of 
5 centuries, and my friend Adam was one. For my own part, 
however, I respect him none the less: nay, I think the deep 
love he had for that sweet, rounded, blossom-like, dark-eyed 
Hetty, of whose inward self he was really very ignorant, came 
out of the very strength of his nature, and not out of any in- 
10 consistent weakness. Is it any weakness, pray, to be wrought 
on by exquisite music?—to feel its wondrous harmonies 
searching the subtlest windings of your soul, the delicate fibres 
of life where no memory can penetrate, and binding together 
your whole being past and present in one unspeakable vibra- 
istion: melting you in one moment with all the tenderness, all 
the love that has been scattered through the toilsome years, 
concentrating in one emotion of heroic courage or resignation 
all the hard-learnt lessons of self-renouncing sympathy, blend¬ 
ing your present joy with past sorrow, and your present sorrow 
20with all your past joy? If not, then neither is it a weakness 
to be so wrought upon by the exquisite curves of a woman’s 
cheek and neck and arms, by the liquid depths of her beseech¬ 
ing eyes or the sweet childish pout of her lips. For the beauty 
of a lovely woman is like music: what can one say more? 
25 Beauty has an expression beyond and far above the one 
woman’s soul that it clothes, as the words of genius have a 
wider meaning than the thought that prompted them: it is 
more than a woman’s love that moves us in a woman’s eyes— 
it seems to be a far-off mighty love that has come near toms, 
30 and made speech for itself there; the rounded neck, the 
dimpled arm, move us by something more than their pretti¬ 
ness—by their close kinship with all we have known of tender¬ 
ness and peace. The noblest nature sees the most of this 
impersonal expression in beauty (it is needless to say that there 
35 are gentlemen with whiskers dyed and undyed who see none 
of it whatever), and for this reason, the noblest nature is 
often the most blinded to the character of the one woman’s 
soul that the beauty clothes. Whence, I fear, the tragedy of 


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383 

human life is likely to continue for a long time to come, in 
spite of mental philosophers who are ready with the best 
receipts for avoiding all mistakes of the kind. 

Our good Adam had no fine words into which he could put 
his feeling for Hetty: he could not disguise mystery in this 5 
way with the appearance of knowledge; he called his love 
frankly a mystery, as you have heard him. He only knew 
that the sight and memory of her moved him deeply, touch¬ 
ing the spring of all love and tenderness, all faith and courage 
within him. How could he imagine narrowness, selfishness, 10 
hardness in her? He created the mind he believed in out of 
his own, which was large, unselfish, tender. 

The hopes he felt about Hetty softened a little his feeling 
towards Arthur. Surely his attentions to Hetty must have 
been of a slight kind; they were altogether wrong, and such 15 
as no man in Arthur’s position ought to have allowed himself, 
but they must have had an air of playfulness about them, 
which had probably blinded him to their danger, and had pre¬ 
vented them from laying any strong hold on Hetty’s heart. 
As the new promise of happiness rose for Adam, his indignation 20 
and jealousy began to die out: Hetty was not made un¬ 
happy; he almost believed that she liked him best; and the 
thought sometimes crossed his mind that the friendship which 
had once seemed dead for ever might revive in the days to 
come, and he would not have to say “good-bye” to the grand 25 
old woods, but would like them better because they were 
Arthur’s. For this new promise of happiness following so 
quickly on the shock of pain, had an intoxicating effect on 
the sober Adam, who had all his life been used to much hard¬ 
ship and moderate hope. Was he really gofog to have an easy 30 
lot after all? It seemed so; for at the beginning of November, 
Jonathan Burge, finding it impossible to replace Adam, had 
at last made up his mind to offer him a share in the business, 
without further condition than that he should continue to 
give his energies to it, and renounce all thought of having 35 
separate business of his own. Son-in-law or no son-in-law, 
Adam had made himself too necessary to be parted with, 
and his headwork was so much more important to Burge 


ADAM BEDE 


384 

than his skill in handicraft, that his having the management 
of the woods made little difference in the value of his services; 
and as to the bargains about the Squire’s timber, it would be 
easy to call in a third person. Adam saw here an opening into 
5 a broadening path of prosperous work, such as he had thought 
of with ambitious longing ever since he was a lad: he might 
come to build a bridge, or a town-hall, or a factory, for he had 
always said to himself that Jonathan Burge’s building business 
was like an acorn, which might be the mother of a great tree. 
10 So he gave his hand to Burge on that bargain, and went home 
with his mind full of happy visions, in which (my refined 
reader will perhaps be shocked when I say it) the image of 
Hetty hovered, and smiled over plans for seasoning timber at 
a trifling expense, calculations as to the cheapening of bricks 
15 per thousand by water-carriage, and a favourite scheme for the 
strengthening of roofs and walls with a peculiar form of iron 
girder. What then? Adam’s enthusiasm lay in these things; 
and our love is inwrought in our enthusiasm as electricity is 
inwrought in the air, exalting its power by a subtle presence. 
20 Adam would be able to take a separate house now, and 
provide for his mother in the old one; his prospects would 
justify his marrying very soon, and if Dinah consented to have 
Seth, their mother would perhaps be more contented to live 
apart from Adam. But he told himself that he would not be 
25 hasty—he would not try Hetty’s feeling for him until it had 
had time to grow strong and firm. However, to-morrow after 
church, he would go to the Hall Farm and tell them the news. 
Mr. Poyser, he knew, would like it better than a five-pound 
note, and he should see if Hetty’s eyes brightened at it. The 
30 months would be short with all he had to fill his mind, and this 
foolish eagerness which had come over him of late must not 
hurry him into any premature words. Yet when he got home 
and told his mother the good news, and ate his supper, while 
she sat by almost crying for joy, and wanting him to eat twice as 
35 much as usual because of this good luck, he could not help pre¬ 
paring her gently for the coming change, by talking of the old 
house being too small for them all to go on living in it always. 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


THE BETROTHAL 

It was a dry Sunday, and really a pleasant day for the 2d 
of November. There was no sunshine, but the clouds were 
high, and the wind was so still that the yellow leaves which 
fluttered down from the hedgerow elms must have fallen from 
pure decay. Nevertheless, Mrs. Poyser did not go to church, 5 
for she had taken a cold too serious to be neglected; only two 
winters ago she had been laid up for weeks with a cold; and 
since his wife did not go to church, Mr. Poyser considered that 
on the whole it would be as well for him to stay away too and 
“keep her company.” He could perhaps have given no pre- 10 
cise form to the reasons that determined this conclusion; but 
it is well known to all experienced minds that our firmest con¬ 
victions are often dependent on subtle impressions for which 
words are quite too coarse a medium. However it was, no 
one from the Poyser family went to church that afternoon 15 
except Hetty and the boys; yet Adam was bold enough to 
join them after church, and say that he would walk home with 
them, though all the way through the village he appeared to 
be chiefly occupied with Marty and Tommy, telling them 
about the squirrels in Binton Coppice, and promising to take 20 
them there some day. But when they came to the fields he 
said to the boys, “Now, then, which is the stoutest walker? 
Him as gets to th’ home-gate first shall be the first to go with 
me to Binton Coppice on the donkey. But Tommy must have 
the start up to the next stile, because he’s the smallest.” _ 25 

Adam had never behaved so much like a determined lover 
before. As soon as the boys had both set off, he looked down 
at Hetty, and said, “Won’t you hang on my arm, Hetty?” 
in a pleading tone, as if he had already asked her and she had 

385 


ADAM BEDE 


386 

refused. Hetty looked up at him smilingly and put her round 
arm through his in a moment. It was nothing to her—put¬ 
ting her arm through Adam’s; but she knew he cared a great 
deal about having her arm through his, and she wished him 
s to care. Her heart beat no faster, and she looked at the half- 
bare hedgerows and the ploughed field with the same sense 
of oppressive dulness as before. But Adam scarcely felt that 
he was walking; he thought Hetty must know that he was 
pressing her arm a little—a very little; words rushed to his 
10 lips that he dared not utter—that he had made up his mind 
not to utter yet; and so he was silent for the length of that 
field. The calm patience with which he had once waited for 
Hetty’s love, content only with her presence and the thought 
of the future, had forsaken him since that terrible shock nearly 
is three months ago. The agitations of jealousy had given a new 
restlessness to his passion—had made fear and uncertainty 
too hard almost to bear. But though he might not speak to 
Hetty of his love, he would tell her about his new prospects, 
and see if she would be pleased. So when he was enough mas- 
20 ter of himself to talk, he said— 

“ I’m going to tell your uncle some news that’ll surprise 
him, Hetty; and I think he’ll be glad to hear it too.” 

“What’s that?” Hetty said, indifferently. 

“Why, Mr. Burge has offered me a share in his business, 
25 and I’m going to take it.” 

There was a change in Hetty’s face, certainly not produced 
by any agreeable impression from this news. In fact she felt 
a momentary annoyance and alarm; for she had so often 
heard it hinted by her uncle that Adam might have Mary 
30 Burge and a share in the business any day if he liked, that she 
associated the two objects now, and the thought immediately 
occurred that perhaps Adam had given her up because of what 
had happened lately, and had turned towards Mary Burge. 
With that thought, and before she had time to remember any 
35 reasons why it could not be true, came a new sense of forsaken¬ 
ness and disappointment: the one thing—the one person— 
her mind had rested on in its dull weariness, had slipped away 


THE BETROTHAL 


3 87 

from her, and peevish misery filled her eyes with tears. She 
was looking on the ground, but Adam saw her face, saw the 
tears, and before he had finished saying, “Hetty, dear Hetty, 
what are you crying for?” his eager rapid thought had flown 
through all the causes conceivable to him, and had at lasts 
alighted on half the true one. Hetty thought he was going to 
marry Mary Burge—she didn’t like him to marry—perhaps 
she didn’t like him to marry any one but herself? All caution 
was swept away—all reason for it was gone, and Adam could 
feel nothing but trembling joy. He leaned towards her and 10 
took her hand, as he said— 

“I could afford to be married now, Hetty—I could make a 
wife comfortable; but I shall never want to be married if you 
won’t have me.” 

Hetty looked up at him, and smiled through her tears as 15 
she had done to Arthur that first evening in the wood, when 
she had thought he was not coming, and yet he came. It was 
a feebler relief, a feebler triumph she felt now, but the great 
dark eyes and the sweet lips were as beautiful as ever, per¬ 
haps more beautiful, for there was a more luxuriant womanli- 20 
ness about Hetty of late. Adam could hardly believe in the 
happiness of that moment. His right hand held her left, and 
he pressed her arm close against his heart as he leaned down 
towards her. 

“Do you really love me, Hetty? Will you be my own wife, 25 
to love and take care of as long as I live?” 

Hetty did not speak, but Adam’s face was very close to 
hers, and she put up her round cheek against his, like a kitten. 
She wanted to be caressed—she wanted to feel as if Arthur 
were with her again. 30 

Adam cared for no words after that, and they hardly 
spoke through the rest of the walk. He only said, “I may 
tell your uncle and aunt, mayn’t I, Hetty?” and she said, 
“Yes.” 

The red fire-light on the hearth at the Hall Farm shone on 35 
joyful faces that evening, when Hetty was gone up-stairs and 
Adam took the opportunity of telling Mr. and Mrs. Poyser 


ADAM BEDE 


388 

and the grandfather that he saw his way to maintaining a 
wife now, and that Hetty had consented to have him. 

“I hope you have no objections against me for her hus¬ 
band,” said Adam; “I’m a poor man as yet, but she shall 
swant nothing as I can work for.” 

“Objections?” said Mr. Poyser, while the grandfather 
leaned forward and brought out his long “Nay, nay. What 
objections can we ha’ to you, lad ? Never mind your being poor- 
ishasyet; there’s money in your head-piece as there s money 1 
10 the sown field, but it must ha’ time. You’n got enough to 
begin on, and we can do a deal tow’rt the bit o’ furniture you 11 
want. Thee’st got feathers and linen to spare—plenty, eh? 

This question was of course addressed to Mrs. Poyser, who 
was wrapped up in a warm shawl, and was too hoarse to speak 
15 with her usual facility. At first she only nodded emphatically, 
but she was presently unable to resist the temptation to be 
more explicit. 

“It ’ud be a poor tale if I hadna feathers and linen, she 
said, hoarsely, “when I never sell a fowl but what s plucked, 
20 and the wheel’s a-going every day o’ the week.” 

“Come, my wench,” said Mr. Poyser, when Hetty came 
down, “come and kiss us, and let us wish you luck.” 

Hetty went very quietly and kissed the big good-natured 

25 “ There! ” he said, patting her on the back, “ go and kiss your 

aunt and your grandfather. I’m as wishful t’ have you settled 
well as if you was my own daughter; and so’s your aunt, I 11 be 
bound, for she’s done by you this seven ’ear, Hetty; as if you’d 
been her own. Come, come, now,” he went on, becoming jocose, 
30as soon as Hetty had kissed her aunt and the old man, “Adam 
wants a kiss too, I’ll warrant, and he’s a right to one now.” 

Hetty turned away, smiling, towards her empty chair. 

“Come, Adam, then, take one,” persisted Mr. Poyser, 
“else y’ arena half a man.” 

35 Adam got up, blushing like a small maiden—great strong 
fellow as he was—and, putting his arm round Hetty, stooped 
down and gently kissed her lips. 


THE BETROTHAL 


389 

It was a pretty scene in the red fire-light: for there were 
no candles; why should there be, when the fire was so bright, 
and was reflected from all the pewter and the polished oak? 
No one wanted to work on a Sunday evening. Even Hetty 
felt something like contentment in the midst of all this love. 5 
Adam’s attachment to her, Adam’s caress, stirred no passion 
in her, were no longer enough to satisfy her vanity; but they 
were the best her life offered her now—they promised her 
some change. 

There was a great deal of discussion before Adam went 10 
away, about the possibility of his finding a house that would 
do for him to settle in. No house was empty except the one 
next to Will Maskery’s in the village, and that was too small 
for Adam now. Mr. Poyser insisted that the best plan would 
be for Seth and his mother to move, and leave Adam in the 15 
old home, which might be enlarged after a while, for there 
was plenty of space in the wood-yard and garden; but Adam 
objected to turning his mother out. 

“Well, well,” said Mr. Poyser at last, “we needna fix every¬ 
thing to-night. We must take time to consider. You canna 20 
think o’ getting married afore Easter. I’m not for long court¬ 
ships, but there must be a bit o’ time to make things comfort¬ 
able.” 

“Ay, to be sure,” said Mrs. Poyser, in a hoarse whisper; 
“Christian folks can’t be married like cuckoos, I reckon.” 25 

“I’m a bit daunted, though,” said Mr. Poyser, “when I 
think as we may have notice to quit, and belike be forced to 
take a farm twenty mile off.” 

“Eh,” said the old man, staring on the floor, and lifting his 
hands up and down, while his arms rested on the elbows of 30 
his chair, “it’s a poor tale if I mun leave th’ ould spot, an’ 
be buried in a strange parish. An’ you’ll happen ha’ double 
rates to pay,” he added, looking up at his son. 

“Well, thee mustna fret beforehand, father,” said Martin 
the younger. “Happen the Captain ’ull come home and make 35 
our peace wi’ th’ old Squire. I build upo’ that, for I know the 
Captain ’ll see folks righted if he can.” 


CHAPTER XXXV 


THE HIDDEN DREAD 

It was a busy time for Adam—the time between the begin¬ 
ning of November and the beginning of February, and he 
could see little of Hetty, except on Sundays. But a happy 
time, nevertheless; for it was taking him nearer and nearer 
s to March, when they were to be married; and all the little 
preparations for their new housekeeping marked the progress 
towards the longed-for day. Two new rooms had been “ run 
up” to the old house, for his mother and Seth were to live 
with them after all. Lisbeth had cried so piteously at the 
10 thought of leaving Adam, that he had gone to Hetty and asked 
her if, for the love of him, she would put up with his mother’s 
ways, and consent to live with her. To his great delight, 
Hetty said, “Yes; I’d as soon she lived with us as not.” 
Hetty’s mind was oppressed at that moment with a worse 
^difficulty than poor Lisbeth’s ways, she could not care about 
them. So Adam was consoled for the disappointment he had 
felt when Seth had come back from his visit to Snowfield and 
said “it was no use—Dinah’s heart wasna turned towards 
marrying.” For when he told his mother that Hetty was 
20 willing they should all live together, and there was no more 
need of them to think of parting, she said, in a more contented 
tone than he had heard her speak in since it had been settled 
that he was to be married, “Eh, my lad, I’ll be as still as th’ 
ould tabby, an’ ne’er want to do aught but th’ offal work, as 
2s she wonna like t’ do. An’ then, we needna part the platters 
an’ things, as ha’ stood on the shelf together sin’ afore thee wast 
born.” 

There was only one cloud that now and then came across 
Adam’s sunshine: Hetty seemed unhappy sometimes. But to 


390 


39 i 


THE HIDDEN DREAD 

all his anxious, tender questions, she replied with an assurance 
that she was quite contented and wished nothing different; 
and the next time he saw her she was more lively than usual! 

It might be that she was a little overdone with work and 
anxiety now, for soon after Christmas Mrs. Poyser had taken 5 
another cold, which had brought on inflammation, and this 
illness had confined her to her room all through January. 
Hetty had to manage everything down-stairs, and half supply 
Molly s place too, while that good damsel waited on her mis¬ 
tress; and she seemed to throw herself so entirely into her new 10 
functions, working with a grave steadiness which was new in 
her, that Mr. Poyser often told Adam she was wanting to show 
him what a good housekeeper he would have; but he “doubted 
the lass was o’er-doing it—she must have a bit o’ rest when 
her aunt could come down-stairs.” IS 

This desirable event of Mrs. Poyser’s coming down-stairs 
happened m the early part of February, when some mild 
weather thawed the last patch of snow on the Binton Hills. 
On one of these days, soon after her aunt came down, Hetty 
went to Treddleston to buy some of the wedding things which 20 
were wanting, and which Mrs. Poyser had scolded her for 
neglecting, observing that she supposed “it was because they 
were not for th’ outside, else she’d ha’ bought’em fast enough.’’ 

It was about ten o’clock when Hetty set off, and the slight 
hoar-frost that had whitened the hedges in the early morning 25 
had disappeared as the sun mounted on the cloudless sky. 
Bright February days have a stronger charm of hope about 
them than any other days in the year. One likes to pause in 
the mild rays of the sun, and look over the gates at the patient 
plough-horses turning at the end of the furrow, and think that 3 o 
the beautiful year is all before one. The birds seem to feel 
just the same: their notes are as clear as the clear air. There 
are no leaves on the trees and hedgerows, but how green all 
the grassy fields are! and the dark purplish brown of the 
ploughed earth and of the bare branches is beautiful too. 35 
What a glad world this looks like, as one drives or rides along 
the valleys and over the hills! I have often thought so when, 


392 


ADAM BEDE 


in foreign countries, where the fields and woods have looked 
to me like our English Loamshire—the rich land tilled with 
just as much care, the woods rolling down the gentle slopes 
to the green meadows—I have come on something by the 
5 roadside which has reminded me that I am not in Loamshire: 
an° image of a great agony—the agony of the Cross. It has 
stood perhaps by the clustering apple-blossoms, or in the 
broad sunshine by the cornfield, or at a turning by the wood 
where a clear brook was gurgling below; and surely, if there 
io came a traveller to this world who knew nothing of the story 
of man’s life upon it, this image of agony would seem to him 
strangely out of place in the midst of this joyous nature. He 
would not know that hidden behind the apple-blossoms, or 
among the golden corn, or under the shrouding boughs of the 
is wood, there might be a human heart beating heavily with 
anguish; perhaps a young blooming girl, not knowing where 
to turn for refuge from swift-advancing shame; understanding 
no more of this life of ours than a foolish lost lamb wandering 
farther and farther in the nightfall on the lonely heath; yet 
20 tasting the bitterest of life’s bitterness. 

Such things are sometimes hidden among the sunny fields 
and behind the blossoming orchards; and the sound of the 
gurgling brook, if you came close to one spot behind a small 
bush, would be mingled for your ear with a despairing human 
25 sob. No wonder man’s religion has much sorrow in it: no 
wonder he needs a buffering God. 

Hetty, in her red cloak and warm bonnet, with her basket 
in her hand, is turning towards a gate by the side of the 
Treddleston road, but not that she may have a more lingering 
3 o enjoyment of the sunshine, and think with hope of the long 
unfolding year. She hardly knows that the sun is shining; 
and for weeks, now, when she has hoped at all, it has been 
for something at which she herself trembles and shudders. 
She only wants to be out of the high-road, that she may walk 
35 slowly, and not care how her face looks, as she dwells on 
wretched thoughts; and through this gate she can get into a 
field-path behind the wide thick hedgerows. Her great dark 


THE HIDDEN DREAD 


393 

eyes wander blankly over the fields like the eyes of one who is 
desolate, homeless, unloved, not the promised bride of a brave, 
tender man. Hut there are no tears in them: her tears were 
all wept away in the weary night, before she went to sleep. 
At the next stile the pathway branches off: there are two $ 
roads before her—one along by the hedgerow, which will by-’ 
and-by lead her into the road again; the other across the 
fields, which will take her much farther out of the way into 
the Scantlands, low shrouded pastures where she will see 
nobody. She chooses this, and begins to walk a little faster, ro 
as if she had suddenly thought of an object towards which it 
was worth while to hasten. Soon she is in the Scantlands, 
where the grassy land slopes gradually downwards, and she 
leaves the level ground to follow the slope. Farther on there 
is a clump of trees on the low ground, and she is making her x 5 
way towards it. No, it is not a clump of trees, but a dark 
shrouded pool, so full with the wintry rains that the under 
boughs of the elder-bushes lie low beneath the water. She 
sits down on the grassy bank, against the stooping stem of 
the great oak that hangs over the dark pool. She has thought 20 
of this pool often in the nights of the month that has just 
gone by, and now at last she is come to see it. She clasps 
her hands round her knees and leans forward, and looks 
earnestly at it, as if trying to guess what sort of bed it would 
make for her young round limDs. 2S 

No, she has not courage to jump into that cold watery bed, 
and if she had, they might find her—they might find out why 
she had drowned herself. There is but one thing left to her: 
she must go away, go where they can’t find her. 

After the first on-coming of her great dread, some weeks .30 
after her betrothal to Adam, she had waited and waited, in 
the blind vague hope that something would happen to set her 
free from her terror; but she could wait no longer. All the 
force of her nature had been concentrated on the one effort 
of concealment, and she had shrunk with irresistible dread 35 
from every course that could tend towards a betrayal of her 
miserable secret. Whenever the thought of writing to ArthCir 


ADAM BEDE 


394 

had occurred to her, she had rejected it: .he could do nothing 
for her that would shelter her from discovery and scorn among 
the relatives and neighbours who once more made all her 
world, now her airy dream had vanished. Her imagination 
s no longer saw happiness with Arthur, for he could do nothing 
that would satisfy or soothe her pride. No, something else 
would happen—something must happen—to set her free from 
this dread. In young, childish, ignorant souls there is con¬ 
stantly this blind trust in some unshapen chance: it is as 
io hard to a boy or girl to believe that a great wretchedness will 
actually befall them, as to believe that they will die. 

But now necessity was pressing hard upon her—now the 
time of her marriage was close at hand—she could no longer 
rest in this blind trust. She must run away; she must hide 
is herself where no familiar eyes could detect her; and then 
the terror of wandering out into the world, of which she knew 
nothing, made the possibility of going to Arthur a thought 
which brought some comfort with it. She felt so helpless 
now, so unable to fashion the future for herself, that the pros- 
20 pect of throwing herself on him had a relief in it which was 
stronger than her pride. As she sat by the pool, and shud¬ 
dered at the dark cold water, the hope that he would receive 
her tenderly—that he would care for her and think for her— 
was like a sense of lulling warmth, that made her for the 
25 moment indifferent to everything else; and she began now 
to think of nothing but the scheme by which she should get 
away. 

She had had a letter from Dinah lately, full of kind words 
about the coming marriage, which she had heard of from 
30 Seth; and when Hetty had read this letter aloud to her uncle 
he had said, “I wish Dinah ’ud come again now, for she’d 
be a comfort to your aunt when you’re gone. What do you 
think, my wench, o’ going to see her as soon as you can be 
spared, and persuading her to come back wi’ you? You might 
35 happen persuade her wi’ telling her as her aunt wants her, 
for all she writes o’ not being able to come.” Hetty had not 
liked the throught of going to Snowfield, and felt no longing 


THE HIDDEN DREAD 


395 

to see Dinah, so she only said, “It’s so far off, uncle.” But 
now she thought this proposed visit would serve as a pretext 
for going away. She would tell her aunt when she got home 
again, that she should like the change of going to Snowfield 
for a week or ten days. And then, when she got to Stoniton, 5 
where nobody knew her, she would ask for the coach that 
would take her on the way to Windsor. Arthur was at Wind¬ 
sor, and she would go to him. 

As soon as Hetty had determined on this scheme, she rose 
from the grassy bank of the pool, took up her basket, and 10 
went on her way to Treddleston, for she must buy the wed¬ 
ding things she had come out for, though she would never 
want them. She must be careful not to raise any suspicion 
that she was going to run away. 

Mrs. Poyser was quite agreeably surprised that Hetty 15 
wished to go and see Dinah, and try to bring her back to stay 
over the wedding. The sooner she went the better, since the 
weather was pleasant now; and Adam, when he came in the 
evening, said, if Hetty could set off to-morrow, he would make 
time to go with her to Treddleston, and see her safe into the 20 
Stoniton coach. 

“ I wish I could go with you and take care of you, Hetty,” 
he said, the next morning, leaning in at the coach door; “but 
you won’t stay much beyond a week—the time ’ull seem 
long.” 25 

He was looking at her fondly, and his strong hand held hers 
in its grasp. Hetty felt a sense of protection in his presence— 
she was used to it now: if she could have had the past un¬ 
done, and known no other love than her quiet liking for Adam! 
The tears rose as she gave him the last look. 30 

“God bless her for loving me,” said Adam, as he went on 
his way to work again, with Gyp at his heels. 

But Hetty’s tears were not for Adam—not for the anguish 
that would come upon him when he found she was gone from 
him for ever. They were for the misery of her own lot, which 35 
took her away from this brave tender man who offered up 
his whole life to her, and threw her, a poor helpless suppliant, 


ADAM BEDE 


396 

on the man who would think it a misfortune that she was 

obliged to cling to him. . 1 

At three o’clock that day, when Hetty was on the coach 
that was to take her, they said, to Leicester—part of the long, 
s long way to Windsor—she felt dimly that she might be travel¬ 
ling all this weary journey towards the beginning of new 

misery. ,, . , 

Yet Arthur was at Windsor; he would surely not be angry 
with her. If he did not mind about her as he used to do, he 
10 had promised to be good to her, 


CHAPTER XXXVI 

THE JOURNEY IN HOPE 

A long, lonely journey, with sadness in the heart; away 
from the familiar to the strange: that is a hard and dreary 
thing even to the rich, the strong, the instructed: a hard 
thing, even when we are called by duty, not urged by dread. 

What was it then to Hetty? With her poor narrows 
thoughts, no longer melting into vague hopes, but pressed 
upon by the chill of definite fear; repeating again and again 
the same small round of memories—shaping again and again 
the same childish, doubtful images of what was to come— 
seeing nothing in this wide world but the little history of her io 
own pleasures and pains; with so little money in her pocket, 
and the way so long and difficult. Unless she could afford 
always to go in the coaches—and she felt sure she could not, 
for the journey to Stoniton was more expensive than she had 
expected—it was plain that she must trust to carriers’ carts 15 
or slow waggons; and what a time it would be before she 
could get to the end of her journey! The burly old coachman 
from Oakbourne, seeing such a pretty young woman among 
the outside passengers, had invited her to come and sit beside 
him; and feeling that it became him as a man and a coach- 20 
man to open the dialogue with a joke, he applied himself as 
soon as they were off the stones to the elaboration of one suit¬ 
able in all respects. After many cuts with his whip and glances 
at Hetty out of the corner of his eye, he lifted his lips above the 
edge of his wrapper and said— 25 

“He’s pretty nigh six foot, I’ll be bound, isna he, now?” 

“Who?” said Hetty, rather startled. 

“Why, the sweetheart as you’ve left behind, or else him as 
you’re goin’ arter—which is it?” 

39 7 


ADAM BEDE 


398 

Hetty felt her face flushing and then turning pale. She 
thought this coachman must know something about her. 
He must know Adam, and might tell him where she was gone, 
for it is difficult to country people to believe that those who 
5 make a figure in their own parish are not known everywhere 
else, and it was equally difficult to Hetty to understand that 
chance words could happen to apply closely to her circum¬ 
stances. She was too frightened to speak. 

“Hegh, hegh!” said the coachman, seeing that his joke was 
10not so gratifying as he had expected, “you munna take it 
too ser’ous; if he’s behaved ill, get another. Such a pretty 
lass as you can get a sweetheart any day.” 

Hetty’s fear was allayed by-and-by, when she found that 
the coachman made no further allusion to her personal con- 
15 cerns; but it still had the effect of preventing her from asking 
him what were the places on the road to Windsor. She told 
him she was only going a little way out of Stoniton, and when 
she got down at the inn where the coach stopped, she hastened 
away with her basket to another part of the town. When she 
20 had formed her plan of going to Windsor, she had not foreseen 
any difficulties except that of getting away; and after she had 
overcome this by proposing the visit to Dinah, her thoughts 
flew to the meeting with Arthur, and the question how he 
would behave to her—not resting on any probable incidents of 
25 the journey. She was too entirely ignorant of travelling to 
imagine any of its details, and with all her store of money— 
her three guineas—in her pocket, she thought herself amply 
provided. It was not until she found how much it cost her 
to get to Stoniton that she began to be alarmed about the 
30 journey, and then, for the first time, she felt her ignorance as to 
the places that must be passed on her way. Oppressed with this 
new alarm, she walked along the grim Stoniton streets, and at 
last turned into a shabby little inn, where she hoped to get a 
cheap lodging for the night. Here she asked the landlord if he 
35 could tell her what places she must go to, to get to Windsor. 

“Well, I can’t rightly say. Windsor must be pretty nigh 
London, for it’s where the king lives,” was the answer. 


399 


THE JOURNEY IN HOPE 

“ Anyhow, you’d best go t’ Ashby next—that’s south’ard. 
But there’s as many places from here to London as there’s 
bouses in Stoniton, by what I can make out. I’ve never been 
no traveller myself. But how comes a lone young woman like 
you, to be thinking o’ taking such a journey as that?” 5 

“I’m going to my brother—he’s a soldier at Windsor,” said 
Hetty, frightened at the landlord’s questioning look. “I 
can’t afford to go by the coach; do you think there’s a cart 
goes toward Ashby in the morning?” 

“Yes, there may be carts if anybody knowed where they 10 
started from; but you might run over the town before you 
found out. You’d best set off and walk, and trust to summat 
overtaking you.” 

Every word sank like lead on Hetty’s spirits; she saw the 
journey stretch bit by bit before her now; even to get to 15 
Ashby seemed a hard thing: it might take the day, for what 
she knew, and that was nothing to the rest of the journey. 
But it must be done—she must get to Arthur: oh, how she 
yearned to be again with somebody who would care for her! 
She who had never got up in the morning without the certainty 20 
of seeing familiar faces, people on whom she had an acknowl¬ 
edged claim; whose farthest journey had been to Rosseter 
on the pillion with her uncle; whose thoughts had always 
been taking holiday in dreams of pleasure, because all the 
business of her life was managed for her:—this kitten-like 25 
Hetty, who till a few months ago had never felt any other 
grief than that of envying Mary Burge a new ribbon, or being 
girded at by her aunt for neglecting Totty, must now make 
her toilsome way in loneliness, her peaceful home left behind 
for ever, and nothing but a tremulous hope of distant refuge 30 
before her. Now for the first time, as she lay down to-night 
in the strange hard bed, she felt that her home had been a 
happy one, that her uncle had been very good to her, that her 
quiet loir at Hayslope among the things and people she knew, 
with her little pride in her one best gown and bonnet, and 35 
nothing to hide from any one, was what she would like to 
wake up to as a reality, and find that all the feverish life she 


ADAM BEDE 


400 

had known besides was a short nightmare. She thought of 
all she had left behind with yearning regret for her own sake: 
her own misery filled her heart: there was no room in it for 
other people’s sorrow. And yet, before the cruel letter, 
s Arthur had been so tender and loving: the memory of that 
had still a charm for her, though it was no more than a sooth¬ 
ing draught that just made pain bearable. For Hetty could 
conceive no other existence for herself in future than a hidden 
one, and a hidden life, even with love, would have had no 
10 delights for her; still less a life mingled with shame. She knew 
no romances, and had only a feeble share in the feelings which 
are the source of romance, so that well-read ladies may find it 
difficult to understand her state of mind. She was too igno¬ 
rant of everything beyond the simple notions and habits in 
15 which she had been brought up, to have any more definite idea 
of her probable future than that Arthur would take care of 
her somehow, and shelter her from anger and scorn. He 
would not marry her and make her a lady; and apart from 
that she could think of nothing he could give towards which 
20 she looked with longing and ambition. 

The next morning she rose early, and taking only some milk 
and bread for her breakfast, set out to walk on the road 
towards Ashby, under a leaden-coloured sky, with a narrow¬ 
ing streak of yellow, like a departing hope, on the edge of the 
25 horizon. Now in her faintness of heart at the length and 
difficulty of her journey, she was most of all afraid of spend¬ 
ing her money, and becoming so destitute that she would have 
to ask people’s charity; for Hetty had the pride not only of a 
proud nature but of a proud class—the class that pays the 
30 most poor-rates, and most shudders at the idea of profiting 
by a poor-rate. It had not yet occurred to her that she might 
get money for her locket and earrings which she carried with 
her, and she applied all her small arithmetic and knowledge of 
prices to calculating how many meals and how many rides 
35 were contained in her two guineas, and the odd shillings, which 
had a melancholy look, as if they were the pale ashes of the 
other bright-flaming coin. 


THE JOURNEY IN HOPE 


401 


For the first few miles out of Stoniton, she walked on 
bravely, always fixing on some tree or gate or projecting bush 
at the most distant visible point in the road as a goal, and feel¬ 
ing a faint joy when she had reached it. But when she came 
to the fourth milestone, the first she had happened to notice 5 
among the long grass by the road-side, and read that she was 
still only four miles beyond Stoniton, her courage sank. She 
had come only this little way, and yet felt tired, and almost 
hungry again in the keen morning air; for though Hetty was 
accustomed to much movement and exertion indoors, she 10 
was not used to long walks, which produced quite a different 
sort of fatigue from that of household activity. As she was 
looking at the milestone she felt some drops falling on her face 
—it was beginning to rain. Here was a new trouble which had 
not entered into her sad thoughts before; and quite weighed 15 
down by this sudden addition to her burden, she sat down on 
the step of a stile and began to sob hysterically. The begin¬ 
ning of hardship is like the first taste of bitter food—it seems 
for a moment unbearable; yet, if there is nothing else to satis¬ 
fy our hunger, we take another bite and find it possible to go 20 
on. When Hetty recovered from her burst of weeping, she 
rallied her fainting courage: it was raining, and she must try 
to get on to a village where she might find rest and shelter. 
Presently, as she walked on wearily, she heard the rumbling of 
heavy wheels behind her; a covered waggon was coming, 25 
creeping slowly along with a slouching driver cracking his 
whip beside the horses. She waited for it, thinking that if the 
waggoner were not a very sour-looking man, she would ask 
him to take her up. As the waggon approached her, the 
driver had fallen behind, but there was something in the front 3C 
of the big vehicle which encouraged her. At any previous 
moment in her life she would not have noticed it; but now, 
the new susceptibility that suffering had awakened in her 
caused this object to impress her strongly. It was only a 
small white-and-liver coloured spaniel which sat on the front 35 
ledge of the waggon, with large timid eyes, and an incessant 
trembling in the body, such as you may have seen in some of 


ADAM BEDE 


402 

these small creatures. Hetty cared little for animals, as you 
know, but at this moment she felt as if the helpless timid 
creature had some fellowship with her, and without being 
quite aware of the reason, she was less doubtful about speak- 
5 ing to the driver, who now came forward—a large ruddy man, 
with a sack over his shoulders, by way of scarf or mantle. 

“Could you take me up in your waggon, if you’re going 
towards Ashby?” said Hetty. “I’ll pay you for it.” 

“Aw,” said the big fellow, with that slowly-dawning smile 
10which belongs to heavy faces, “I can take y’ up fawst enough 
wi’out bein’ paid for’t if you dooant mind lyin’ a bit closish 
a-top o’ the wool-packs. Where do you coom from ? and what 
do you want at Ashby?” 

“I come from Stoniton. I’m going a long way—to Wind- 
is sor. 

“What! arter some service, or what?” 

“Going to my brother—he’s a soldier there.” 

“Well, I’m going no furder nor Leicester—and fur enough 
too—but I’ll take you, if you dooant mind being a bit long on 
20 the road. Th’ hosses wooant feel your weight no more nor 
they feel the little doog there, as I puck up on the road a fort- 
ni’t agoo. He war lost, I b’lieve, an’s been all of a tremble iver 
sin’. Come, gi’ us your basket, an’ come behind and let me 
put y’ in.” 

25 To lie on the wool-packs, with a cranny left between the 
curtains of the awning to let in the air, was luxury to Hetty 
now, and she half slept away the hours till the driver came to 
ask her if she wanted to get down and have “some victual;” 
he himself was going to eat his dinner at this “public.” Late 
30 at night they reached Leicester, and so this second day of 
Hetty’s journey was past. She had spent no money except 
what she had paid for her food, but she felt that this slow 
journeying would be intolerable for her another day, and in 
the morning she found her way to a coach-office to ask about 
35 the road to Windsor, and see if it would cost her too much to 
go part of the distance by coach again. Yes! the distance 
was too great—the coaches were too dear—she must give them 


THE JOURNEY IN HOPE 403 

up; but the elderly clerk at the office, touched by her pretty 
anxious face, wrote down for her the names of the chief places 
she must pass through. This was the only comfort she got in 
Leicester, for the men stared at her as she went along the 
street, and for the first time in her life Hetty wished no one 5 
would look at her. She set out walking again; but this day 
she was fortunate, for she was soon overtaken by a carrier’s cart 
which carried her to Hinckley, and by the help of a return 
chaise, with a drunken postilion,—who frightened her °by 
driving like Jehu the son Nimshi, and shouting hilarious re- 10 
marks at her, twisting himself backwards on his saddle,— 
she was before night in the heart of woody Warwickshire: but 
still almost a hundred miles from Windsor, they told her. Oh 
what a large world it was, and what hard work for her to find 
her way in it! She went by mistake to °Stratford-on-Avon, 15 
finding Stratford set down in her list of places, and then she 
was told she had come a long way out of the right road. It 
was not till the fifth day that she got to Stony Stratford. 
That seems but a slight journey as you look at the map, or 
remember your own pleasant travels to and from the meadowy 20 
banks of the Avon. But how wearily long it was to Hetty! It 
seemed to her as if this country of flat fields and hedgerows, 
and dotted houses, and villages, and market-towns—all so 
much alike to her indifferent eyes—must have no end, and 
she must go on wandering among them for ever, waiting tired 25 
at toll-gates for some cart to come, and then finding the cart 
went only a little way—a very little way—to the miller’s a 
mile off perhaps; and she hated going into the public-houses, 
where she must go to get food and ask questions, because there 
were always men lounging there, who stared at her and joked 30 
her rudely. Her body was very weary too with these days of 
new fatigue and anxiety; they had made her look more pale 
and worn than all the time of hidden dread she had gone 
through at home. When at last she reached Stony Strat¬ 
ford, her impatience and weariness had become too strong 35 
for her economical caution; she determined to take the coach 
for the rest of the way, though it should cost her all her 


404 


ADAM BEDE 


remaining money. She would need nothing at Windsor but to 
find Arthur. When she had paid the fare for the last coach, 
she had only a shilling; and as she got down at the sign of the 
Green Man in Windsor at twelve o’clock in the middle of the 
5 seventh day, hungry and faint, the coachman came up, and 
begged her to “remember him.” She put her hand in her 
pocket and took out the shilling, but the tears came with the 
sense of exhaustion and the thought that she was giving away 
her last means of getting food, which she really required be- 
iofore she could go in search of Arthur. As she held out the 
shilling, she lifted up her dark tear-filled eyes to the coach¬ 
man’s face and said, “Can you give me back six-pence?” 

“No, no,” he said, gruffly, “never mind—put the shilling 
up again.” 

is The landlord of the Green Man had stood near enough to 
witness this scene, and he was a man whose abundant feeding 
served to keep his good-nature, as well as his person, in high 
condition. And that lovely tearful face of Hetty’s would 
have found out the sensitive fibre in most men. 

20 “Come, young woman, come in,” he said, “and have a drop 
o’ something; you’re pretty well knocked up: I can see that.” 

He took her into the bar and said to his wife, “Here, missis, 
take this young woman into the parlour; she’s a little over¬ 
come,”—for Hetty’s tears were falling fast. They were merely 
25 hysterical tears: she thought she had no reason for weeping 
now, and was vexed that she was too weak and tired to help 
it. She was at Windsor at last, not far from Arthur. 

She looked with eager, hungry eyes at the bread and meat 
and beer that the landlady brought her, and for some minutes 
30 she forgot everything else in the delicious sensations of satis¬ 
fying hunger and recovering from exhaustion. The landlady 
sat opposite to her as she ate, and looked at her earnestly. No 
wonder: Hetty had thrown off her bonnet, and her curls had 
fallen down: her face was all the more touching in its youth 
35 and beauty because of its weary look; and the good woman’s 
eyes presently wandered to her figure, which in her hurried 
dressing on her journey she had taken no pains to conceal; 


THE JOURNEY IN HOPE 


405 


moreover, the stranger’s eye detects what the familiar un¬ 
suspecting eye leaves unnoticed. 

“Why, you’re not very fit for travelling,” she said, glanc¬ 
ing while she spoke at Hetty’s ringless hand. “Have you 
come far?” 5 

“Yes,” said Hetty, roused by this question to exert more 
self-command, and feeling the better for the food she had 
taken. “ I’ve come a good long way, and it’s very tiring. But 
I’m better now. Could you tell me which way to go to this 
place?” Here Hetty took from her pocket a bit of paper: it 10 
was the end of Arthur’s letter on which he had written his 
address. 

While she was speaking, the landlord had come in, and had 
begun to look at her as earnestly as his wife had done. He 
took up the piece of paper which Hetty handed across the 15 
table, and read the address. 

“Why, what do you want at this house?” he said. It is 
in the nature of innkeepers and all men who have no pressing 
business of their own, to ask as many questions as possible 
before giving any information. 20 

“I want to see a gentleman as is there,” said Hetty. 

“But there’s no gentleman there,” returned the landlord. 
“It’s shut up—been shut up this fortnight. What gentleman 
is it you want? Perhaps I can let you know where to find 
him.” 25 

“It’s Captain Donnithorne,” said Hetty, tremulously, her 
heart beginning to beat painfully at this disappointment of 
her hope that she should find Arthur at once. 

“Captain Donnithorne? Stop a bit,” said the landlord, 
slowly. “Was he in the Loamshire Militia? A tall young30 
officer with a fairish skin and reddish whiskers—and had a 
servant by the name o’ Pym?” 

“Oh yes,” said Hetty; “you know him—where is he?” 

“A fine sight o’ miles away from here: the Loamshire Mili¬ 
tia’s gone to Ireland; it’s been gone this fortnight.” 35 

“Look there! she’s fainting,” said the landlady, hastening 
to support Hetty, who had lost her miserable consciousness 


ADAM BEDE 


406 

and looked like a beautiful corpse. They carried her to the 
sofa and loosened her dress. 

“Here’s a bad business, I suspect,” said the landlord, as 
he brought in some water. 

s “Ah, it’s plain enough what sort of business it is,” said the 
wife. “She’s not a common flaunting dratchell, I can see 
that. She looks like a respectable country girl, and °she 
comes from a good way off, to judge by her tongue. She 
talks something like that ostler we had that come from the 
to north: he was as honest a fellow as we ever had about the 
house—they’re all honest folks in the north.” 

“I never saw a prettier young woman in my life,” said the 
husband. “She’s like a pictur in a shop-winder. It goes to 
one’s ’eart to look at her.” 

15 “It ’ud have been a good deal better for her if she’d been 
uglier and had more conduct,” said the landlady, who on 
any charitable construction must have been supposed to have 
more “conduct” than beauty. “But she’s coming to again. 
Fetch a drop more water.” 


CHAPTER XXXVII 

THE JOURNEY IN DESPAIR 

Pletty was too ill through the rest of that day for any ques¬ 
tions to be addressed to her—too ill even to think with any 
distinctness of the evils that were to come. She only felt 
that all her hope was crushed, and that instead of having found 
a refuge she had only reached the borders of a new wilderness 5 
where no goal lay before her. The sensations of bodily sick¬ 
ness, in a comfortable bed, and with the tendance of the good- 
natured landlady, made a sort of respite for her; such a respite 
as there is in the faint weariness which obliges a man to throw 
himself on the sand, instead of toiling onward under the 10 
scorching sun. 

But when sleep and rest had brought back the strength 
necessary for the keenness of mental suffering,—when she lay 
the next morning looking at the growing light which was like 
a cruel task-master returning to urge from her a fresh round 15 
of hated hopeless labour,—she began to think what course 
she must take, to remember that all her money was gone, to 
look at the prospect of further wandering among strangers 
with the new clearness shed on it by the experience of her 
journey to Windsor. But which way could she turn? It was 20 
impossible for her to enter into any service, even if she could 
obtain it: there was nothing but immediate beggary before 
her. She thought of a young woman who had been found 
against the church wall at Hayslope one Sunday, nearly dead 
with cold and hunger—a tiny infant in her arms: the woman 25 
was rescued and taken to the parish. “The parish!” You can 
perhaps hardly understand the effect of that word on a mind 
like Hetty’s, brought up among people who were somewhat 
hard in their feelings even towards poverty, who lived among 

407 


ADAM BEDE 


408 

the fields, and had little pity for want and rags as a cruel in¬ 
evitable fate such as they sometimes seem in cities, but held 
them a mark of idleness and vice—and it was idleness and 
vice that brought burthens on the parish. To Hetty the 
s “parish” was next to the prison in obloquy; and to ask any¬ 
thing of strangers—to beg—lay in the same far-off hideous 
region of intolerable shame that Hetty had all her life thought 
it impossible she could ever come near. But now the remem¬ 
brance of that wretched woman whom she had seen herself, 
10 on her way from church, being carried into Joshua Rann’s, 
came back upon her with the new terrible sense that there 
was very little now to divide her from the same lot. And the 
dread of bodily hardship mingled with the dread of shame; 
for Hetty had the luxurious nature of a round, soft-coated pet 
is animal. 

How she yearned to be back in her safe home again, cher¬ 
ished and cared for as she had always been! Her aunt’s 
scolding about trifles would have been music to her ears now: 
she longed for it: she used to hear it in a time when she had 
20 only trifles to hide. Could she be the same Hetty that used 
to make up the butter in the dairy with the Gueldres roses 
peeping in at the window—she, a runaway whom her friends 
would not open their doors to again, lying in this strange bed, 
with the knowledge that she had no money to pay for what 
25 she received, and must offer those strangers some of the clothes 
in her basket? It was then she thought of her locket and 
earrings, and seeing her pocket lie near, she reached it and 
spread the contents on the bed before her. There were the 
locket and earrings in the little velvet-lined boxes, and with 
30 them there was a beautiful silver thimble which Adam had 
bought her, the words “Remember me” making the ornament 
of the border; a steel purse, with her one shilling in it, and a 
small red-leather case, fastening with a strap. Those beauti¬ 
ful little earrings, with their delicate pearls and garnet, that 
35 she had tried in her ears with such longing in the bright sun¬ 
shine on the 30th of July! She had no longing to put them in 
her ears now: her head with its dark rings of hair lay back 


THE JOURNEY IN DESPAIR 409 

languidly on the pillow, and the sadness that rested about her 
brow and eyes was something too hard for regretful memory. 
Yet she put her hands up to her ears: it was because there 
were some thin gold rings in them, which were also worth a 
little money. Yes, she could surely get some money for hers 
ornaments: those Arthur had given her must have cost a 
great deal of money. The landlord and landlady had been 
good to her; perhaps they would help her to get the money for 
these things. 

But this money would not keep her long: what should she 10 
do when it was gone? Where should she go? The horrible 
thought of want and beggary drove her once to think she 
would go back to her uncle and aunt, and ask them to forgive 
her and have pity on her. But she shrank from that idea 
again, as she might have shrunk from scorching metal: she 15 
could never endure that shame before her uncle and aunt, 
before Mary Burge, and the servants at the Chase, and the 
people at Broxton, and everybody who knew her. They 
should never know what had happened to her. What could 
she do? She would go away from Windsor—travel again as 20 
she had done the last week, and get among the flat green 
fields with the high hedges round them, where nobody could 
see her or know her; and there, perhaps, when there was 
nothing else she could do, she should get courage to drown her¬ 
self in some pond like that in the Scantlands. Yes, she would 25 
get away from Windsor as soon as possible: she didn’t like 
these people at the inn to know about her, to know that she 
had come to look for Captain Donnithorne: she must think 
of some reason to tell them why she had asked for him. 

With this thought she began to put the things back into 30 
her pocket, meaning to get up and dress before the landlady 
came to her. She had her hand on the red-leather case, when 
it occurred to her that there might be something in this case 
which she had forgotten—something worth selling; for with¬ 
out knowing what she should do with her life, she craved the 3 s 
means of living as long as possible; and when we desire eagerly 
to find something, we are apt to search for it in hopeless places. 


410 


ADAM BEDE 


No, there was nothing but common needles and pins, and 
dried tulip-petals between the paper leaves where she had 
written down her little money-accounts. But on one of these 
leaves there was a name, which, often as she had seen it before, 
5 now flashed on Hetty’s mind like a newly-discovered message. 
The name was— Dinah Morris , Snowfield. There was a text 
above it, written, as well as the name, by Dinah’s own hand 
with a little pencil, one evening that they were sitting to¬ 
gether and Hetty happened to have the red case lying open 
io before her. Hetty did not read the text now: she was only 
arrested by the name. Now, for the first time, she remem¬ 
bered without indifference the affectionate kindness Dinah 
had shown her, and °those words of Dinah in the bed-chamber 
—that Hetty must think of her as a friend in trouble. Sup- 
15 pose she were to go to Dinah, and ask her to help her? Dinah 
did not think about things as other people did: she was a 
mystery to Hetty, but Hetty knew she was always kind. She 
couldn’t imagine Dinah’s face turning away from her in dark 
reproof or scorn, Dinah’s voice willingly speaking ill of her, or 
20 rejoicing in her misery as a punishment. Dinah did not seem 
to belong to that world of Hetty’s, whose glance she dreaded 
like scorching fire. But even to her Hetty shrank from be¬ 
seeching and confession: she could not prevail on herself to 
say, “I will go to Dinah;” she only thought of that as a 
25 possible alternative, if she had not courage for death. 

The good landlady was amazed when she saw Hetty come 
down-stairs soon after herself, neatly dressed, and looking 
resolutely self-possessed. Hetty told her she was quite well 
this morning: she had only been very tired and overcome 
30 with her journey, for she had come a long way to ask about 
her brother, who had run away, and they thought he was gone 
for a soldier, and Captain Donnithorne might know, for he 
had been very kind to her brother once. It was a lame story, 
and the landlady looked doubtfully at Hetty as she told it; 
35 but there was a resolute air of self-reliance about her this 
morning, so different from the helpless prostration of yester¬ 
day, that the landlady hardly knew how to make a remark 


THE JOURNEY IN DESPAIR 411 

that might seem like prying into other people’s affairs. She 
only invited her to sit down to breakfast with them, and in 
the course of it Hetty brought out her earrings and locket, 
and asked the landlord if he could help her to get money for 
them: her journey, she said, had cost her much more than s 
she expected, and now she had no money to get back to her 
friends, which she wanted to do at once. 

It was not the first time the landlady had seen the orna¬ 
ments, for she had examined the contents of Hetty’s pocket 
yesterday, and she and her husband had discussed the fact 10 
of a country girl having these beautiful things, with a stronger 
conviction than ever that Hetty had been miserably deluded 
by the fine young officer. 

‘‘Well,” said the landlord, when Hetty had spread the 
precious trifles before him, “we might take ’em to the jewel- 15 
ler’s shop, for there’s one not far off; but Lord bless you, they 
wouldn’t give you a quarter o’ what the things are worth. 
And you wouldn’t like to part with ’em?” he added, looking 
at her inquiringly. 

“Oh, I don’t mind,” said Hetty, hastily, “so as I can get 20 
money to go back.” 

“And they might think the things were stolen, as you 
wanted to sell ’em,” he went on; “ for it isn’t usual for a young , 
woman like you to have fine jew’llery like that.” 

The blood rushed to Hetty’s face with anger. “I belong to"’25 
respectable folks,” she said; “I’m not a thief.” 

“No, that you aren’t, I’ll be bound,” said the landlady; 
“and you’d no call to say that,” looking indignantly at her 
husband. “The things were gev to her: that’s plain enough 
to be seen.” 3<5 

“I didn’t mean as I thought so,” said the husband, apol¬ 
ogetically, “but I said it was what the jeweller might think, 
and so he wouldn’t be offering much money for ’em.” 

“Well,” said the wife, “suppose you were to advance some 
money on the things yourself, and then if she liked to redeem 35 
’em when she got home, she could. But if we heard nothing 
from her after two months, we might do as we liked with ’em.” 


ADAM BEDE 


412 

I will not say that in this accommodating proposition the 
landlady had no regard whatever to the possible reward of her 
good-nature in the ultimate possession of the locket and ear¬ 
rings: indeed, the effect they would have in that case on the 
5 mind of the grocer’s wife had presented itself with remarkable 
vividness to her rapid imagination. The landlord took up 
the ornaments and pushed out his lips in a meditative man¬ 
ner. He wished Hetty well, doubtless; but pray, how many 
of your well-wishers would decline to make a little gain out of 
10 you ? Your landlady is sincerely affected at parting with you, 
respects you highly, and will really rejoice if any one else is 
generous to you; but at the same time she hands you a bill 
by which she gains as high a percentage as possible. 

“ How much money do you want to get home with, young 
is woman?” said the well-wisher, at length. 

“Three guineas,” answered Hetty, fixing on the sum she 
set out with, for want of any other standard, and afraid of 
asking too much. 

“Well, I’ve no objections to advance you three guineas,” 
20said the landlord; “and if you like to send it me back and 
get the jewellery again, you can, you know: the Green Man 
isn’t going to run away.” 

“Oh, yes, I’ll be very glad if you’ll give me that,” said 
Hetty, relieved at the thought that she would not have to go 
25 to the jeweller’s, and be stared at and questioned. 

“ But if you want the things again, you’ll write before long,” 
said the landlady, “because when two months are up, we 
shall make up our minds you don’t want ’em.” 

“Yes,” said Hetty, indifferently. 

30 The husband and wife were equally content with this ar¬ 
rangement. The husband thought, if the ornaments were 
not redeemed, he could make a good thing of it by taking them 
to London and selling them: the wife thought she would 
coax the good man into letting her keep them. And they were 
35 accommodating Hetty, poor thing:—a pretty, respectable¬ 
looking young woman, apparently in a sad case. They 
declined to take anything for her food and bed: she was quite 


413 


THE JOURNEY IN DESPAIR 

welcome. And at eleven o’clock Hetty said “Good-bye” to 
them, with the same quiet, resolute air she had worn all the 
morning, mounting the coach that was to take her twenty 
miles back along the way she had come. 

There is a strength of self-possession which is the sign that 5 
the last hope has departed. Despair no more leans on others 
than perfect contentment, and in despair pride ceases to be 
counteracted by the sense of dependence. 

Hetty felt that no one could deliver her from the evils that 
would make life hateful to her; and no one, she said to her- 10 
self, should ever know her misery and humiliation. No; she 
would not confess even to Dinah: she would wander out of 
sight, and drown herself where her body would never be 
found, and no one should know what had become of her. 

When she got off this coach, she began to walk again, and 15 
take cheap rides in carts, and get cheap meals, going on and 
on without distinct purpose, yet strangely, by some fascina¬ 
tion, taking the way she had come, though she was deter¬ 
mined not to go back to her own country. Perhaps it was 
because she had fixed her mind on the grassy Warwickshire 20 
fields, with the bushy tree-studded hedgerows that made a 
hiding-place even in this leafless season. She went more slowly 
than she came, often getting over the stiles and sitting for 
hours under the hedgerows, looking before her with blank 
beautiful eyes; fancying herself at the edge of a hidden 25 
pool, low down, like that in the Scantlands; wondering if it 
were very painful to be drowned, and if there would be any¬ 
thing worse after death than what she dreaded in life. Re¬ 
ligious doctrines had taken no hold on Hetty’s mind: she 
was one of those numerous people who have had godfathers 30 
and godmothers, learned their catechism, been confirmed, and 
gone to church every Sunday, and yet, for any practical result 
of strength in life, or trust in death, have never appropriated 
a single Christian idea or Christian feeling. You would mis¬ 
understand her thoughts during these wretched days, if you 35 
imagined that they were influenced either by religious fears or 
religious hopes. 


ADAM BEDE 


414 

She chose to go to Stratford-on-Avon again, where she 
had gone before by mistake; for she remembered some grassy 
fields on her former way towards it—fields among which she 
thought she might find just the sort of pool she had in her 
5 mind. Yet she took care of her money still; she carried her 
basket: death seemed still a long way off, and life was so 
strong in her! She craved food and rest—she hastened to¬ 
wards them at the very moment she was picturing to herself 
the bank from which she would leap towards death. It was 
10 already five days since she had left Windsor, for she had wan¬ 
dered about, always avoiding speech or questioning looks, 
and recovering her air of proud self-dependence whenever she 
was under observation, choosing her decent lodging at night, 
and dressing herself neatly in the morning, and setting off on 
15 her way steadily, or remaining under shelter if it rained, as 
if she had a happy life to cherish. 

And yet, even in her most self-conscious moments, the 
face was sadly different from that which had smiled at itself 
in the old specked glass, or smiled at others when they 
20 glanced at it admiringly. A hard and even fierce look had 
come in the eyes, though their lashes were as long as ever, 
and they had all their dark brightness. And the cheek was 
never dimpled with smiles now. It was the same rounded, 
pouting, childish prettiness, but with all love and belief in 
25 love departed from it—the sadder for its beauty, like that 
wondrous °Medusa-face, with the passionate, passionless lips. 

At last she was among the fields she had been dreaming of, 
on a long narrow pathway leading towards a wood. If there 
should be a pool in that wood! It would be better hidden than 
30 one in the fields. No, it was not a wood, only a wild brake, 
where there had once been gravel-pits, leaving mounds and 
hollows studded with brushwood and small trees. She 
roamed up and down, thinking there was perhaps a pool in 
every hollow before she came to it, till her limbs were weary, 
35 and she sat down to rest. The afternoon was far advanced, 
and the leaden sky was darkening, as if the sun were setting 
behind it. After a while Hetty started up again, feeling that 


THE JOURNEY IN DESPAIR 415 

darkness would soon come on; and she must put off finding 
the pool till to-morrow, and make her way to some shelter for 
the night. She had quite lost her way in the fields, and might 
as well go in one direction as another, for aught she knew. 
She walked through field after field, and no village, no house 5 
was in sight; but there , at the corner of this pasture, there 
was a break in the hedges; the land seemed to dip down a 
little, and two trees leaned towards each other across the 
opening. Hetty’s heart gave a great beat as she thought there 
must be a pool there. She walked towards it heavily over the 10 
tufted grass, with pale lips and a sense of trembling: it was 
as if the thing were come in spite of herself, instead of being 
the object of her search. 

There it was, black under the darkening sky: no motion, 
no sound near. She set down her basket, and then sank down 15 
herself on the grass, trembling. The pool had its wintry depth 
now: by the time it got shallow, as she remembered the pools 
did at Hayslope, in the summer, no one could find out that it 
was her body. But then there was her basket—she must hide 
that too: she must throw it into the water—make it heavy 20 
with stones first, and then throw it in. She got up to look 
about for stones, and soon brought five or six, which she laid 
down beside her basket, and then sat down again. There was 
no need to hurry—there was all the night to drown herself in. 
She sat leaning her elbow on the basket. She was weary, 25 
hungry. There were some buns in her basket—three, which 
she had supplied herself with at the place where she ate her 
dinner. She took them out now, and ate them eagerly, and 
then sat still again, looking at the pool. The soothed sensa¬ 
tion that came over her from the satisfaction of her hunger, 30 
and this fixed dreamy attitude, brought on drowsiness, and 
presently her head sank down on her knees. She was fast 
asleep. 

When she awoke it was deep night, and she felt chill. She 
was frightened at this darkness—frightened at the long night 35 
before her. If she could but throw herself into the water! 
No, not yet. She began to walk about that she might get 


4I 6 ADAM BEDE 

warm again, as if she would have more resolution then. Oh 
how long the time was in that darkness! The bright hearth 
and the warmth and the voices of home, the secure uprising 
and lying down,—the familiar fields, the familiar people, the 
s Sundays and holidays with their simple joys of dress and 
feasting,—all the sweets of her young life rushed before her 
now, and she seemed to be stretching her arms towards them 
across a great gulf. She set her teeth when she thought of 
Arthur: she cursed him, without knowing what her cursing 
IO would do: she wished he too might know desolation, and 
cold, and a life of shame that he dared not end by death. 

The horror of this cold, and darkness, and solitude—out of 
all human reach—became greater every long minute: it was 
almost as if she were dead already, and knew that she was 
15 dead, and longed to get back to life again. But no: she was 
alive still; she had not taken the dreadful leap. She felt a 
strange contradictory wretchedness and exultation: wretch- 
ednes*s, that she did not dare to face death; exultation, that 
she was still in life—that she might yet know light and warmth 
20 again. She walked backwards and forwards to warm herself, 
beginning to discern something of the objects around her, as 
her eyes became accustomed to the night: the darker line of 
the hedge, the rapid motion of some living creature—perhaps 
a field-mouse—rushing across the grass. She no longer felt 
2 S as if the darkness hedged her in: she thought she could walk 
back across the field, and get over the stile; and then, in 
the very next field, she thought she remembered there was a 
hovel of furze near a sheepfold. If she could get into that 
hovel, she would be warmer; she could pass the night there, 
3 o for that was what Alick did at Hayslope in lambing-time. 
The thought of this hovel brought the energy of a new hope: 
she took up her basket and walked across the field, but it was 
some time before she got in the right direction for the stile. 
The exercise and the occupation of finding the stile were a 
35 stimulus to her, however, and lightened the horror of the dark¬ 
ness and solitude. There were sheep in the next field, and 
she startled a group as she set down her basket and got over 


THE JOURNEY IN DESPAIR 417 

the stile; and the sound of their movement comforted her, 
for it assured her that her impression was right: this was 
the field where she had seen the hovel, for it was the field 
where the sheep were. Right on along the path, and she 
would get to it. She reached the opposite gate, and felt her 5 
way along its rails, and the rails of the sheepfold, till her hand 
encountered the pricking of the gorsy wall. Delicious sensa¬ 
tion! She had found the shelter: she groped her way, touch¬ 
ing the prickly gorse, to the door, and pushed it open. It was 
an ill-smelling close place, but warm, and there was straw on 10 
the ground: Hetty sank down on the straw with a sense of 
escape. Tears came—she had never shed tears before since 
she left Windsor—tears and sobs of hysterical joy that she 
had still hold of life, that she was still on the familiar earth, 
with the sheep near her. The very consciousness of her own 15 
limbs w’as a delight to her: she turned up her sleeves, and 
kissed her arms with the passionate love of life. Soon warmth 
and weariness lulled her in the midst of her sobs, and she fell 
continually into dozing, fancying herself at the brink of the 
pool again—fancying that she had jumped into the water, 20 
and then awaking with a start, and wondering where she was. 
But at last deep dreamless sleep came; her head, guarded by 
her bonnet, found a pillow against the gorsy wall; and the 
poor soul, driven to and fro between two equal terrors, found 
the one relief that was possible to it—the relief of uncon- 25 
sciousness. 

Alas! that relief seems to end the moment it has begun. It 
seemed to Hetty as if those dozen dreams had only passed 
into another dream—that she was in the hovel, and her aunt 
was standing over her with a candle in her hand. She trem-30 
bled under her aunt’s glance, and opened her eyes. There was 
no candle, but there was light in the hovel—the light of early 
morning through the open door. And there was a face look¬ 
ing down on her; but it was an unknown face, belonging to 
an elderly man in a smock-frock. 35 

“Why, what do you do here, young woman?” the man said, 
roughly. 


ADAM BEDE 


418 

Hetty trembled still worse under this real fear and shame 
than she had done in her momentary dream under her aunt’s 
glance. She felt that she was like a beggar already—found 
sleeping in that place. But in spite of her trembling, she was 
5 so eager to account to the man for her presence here, that she 
found words at once. 

“I lost my way,” she said. “I’m travelling—north ard, 
and I got away from the road into the fields, and was over¬ 
taken by the dark. Will you tell me the way to the nearest 
10 village?” 

She got up as she was speaking, and put her hands to her 
bonnet to adjust it, and then laid hold of her basket. 

The man looked at her with a slow bovine gaze, without 
giving her any answer, for some seconds. Then he turned 
is away and walked towards the door of the hovel, but it was 
not till he got there that he stood still, and, turning his 
shoulder half round towards her, said— 

“Aw, I can show you the way to Norton, if you like. But 
what do you do gettin’ out o’ the high-road?” he added, with 
20 a tone of gruff reproof. “ Y’ull be gettin’ into mischief, if you 
dooant mind.” 

“Yes,” said Hetty, “I won’t do it again. I’ll keep in^the 
road, if you’ll be so good as to show me how to get to it.” 

“Why dooant you keep where there’s finger-poasses an’ 
25 folks to ax the way on?” the man said, still more gruffly. 
“Anybody ’ud think you was a wild woman, an’ look at yer.” 

Hetty was frightened at this gruff old man, and still more 
at this last suggestion that she looked like a wild woman. As 
she followed him out of the hovel she thought she would give 
30 him a sixpence for telling her the way, and then he would not 
suppose she was wild. As he stopped to point out the road 
to her, she put her hand in her pocket to get the sixpence 
ready, and when he was turning away, without saying good¬ 
morning, she held it out to him and said, “Thank you; will 
35 you please to take something for your trouble?” 

He looked slowly at the sixpence, and then said, “I want 
none o’ your money. You’d better take care on’t, else you’ll 


THE JOURNEY IN DESPAIR 419 

get it stool from yer, if you go trapesin’ about the fields like 
a mad woman a-that-way.” 

The man left her without further speech, and Hetty held 
on her way. Another day had risen, and she must wander 
on. It was no use to think of drowning herself—she could not 5 
do it, at least while she had money left to buy food, and 
strength to journey on. But the incident on her waking this 
morning heightened her dread of that time when her money 
would be all gone; she would have to sell her basket and 
clothes then, and she would really look like a beggar or a wild 10 
woman, as the man had said. The passionate joy in life she 
had felt in the night, after escaping from the brink of the black 
cold death in the pool, was gone now. Life now, by the morn¬ 
ing light, with the impression of that man’s hard wondering 
look at her, was as full of dread as death:—it was worse; it 15 
was a dread to which she felt chained, from which she shrank 
and shrank as she did from the black pool, and yet could find 
no refuge from it. 

She took out her money from her purse, and looked at it; 
she had still two-and-twenty shillings; it would serve her 20 
for many days more, or it would help her to get on faster to 
Stonyshire, within reach of Dinah. The thought of Dinah 
urged itself more strongly now, since the experience of the 
night had driven her shuddering imagination away from the 
pool. If it had been only going to Dinah—if nobody besides 25 
Dinah would ever know—Hetty could have made up her mind 
to go to her. The soft voice, the pitying eyes, would have drawn 
her. But afterwards the other people must know, and she could 
no more rush on that shame than she could rush on death. 

She must wander on and on, and wait for a lower depth of 30 
despair to give her courage. Perhaps death would come to 
her, for she was getting less and less able to bear the day’s 
weariness. And yet—such is the strange action of our souls, 
drawing us by a lurking desire towards the very ends we 
dread—Hetty, when she set out again from Norton, asked the 35 
straightest road northward towards Stonyshire, and kept it 
all that day. 


420 


ADAM BEDE 


Poor wandering Hetty, with the rounded childish face, and 
the hard unloving despairing soul looking out of it with the 
narrow heart and narrow thoughts, no room in them tor any 
sorrows but her own, and tasting that sorrowvvith the more 
s intense bitterness 1 My heart bleeds for her as I see her toiling 
along on her weary feet, or seated in a cart, with her eyes fixed 
vacantly on the road before her, never thinking or caring 
whither it tends, till hunger comes and makes her desire that 

IO 3 What will'be the end ?—the end of her objectless wandering, 
apart from all love, caring for human beings only through her 
pride, clinging to life only as the hunted wounded brute clings 

tC> God preserve you and me from being the beginners of such 
15 misery! 


CHAPTER XXXVIII 

THE QUEST 

The first ten days after Hetty’s departure passed as quietly 
as any other days with the family at the Hall Farm, and with 
Adam at his daily work. They had expected Hetty to stay 
away a week or ten days at least, perhaps a little longer if 
Dinah came back with her, because there might then be some- 5 
thing to detain them at Snowfield. But when a fortnight had 
passed they began to feel a little surprise that Hetty did not 
return; she must surely have found it pleasanter to be with 
Dinah than any one could have supposed. Adam, for his 
part, was getting very impatient to see her, and he resolved 10 
that, if she did not appear the next day (Saturday), he would 
set out on Sunday morning to fetch her. There was no coach on 
a Sunday; but by setting out before it was light, and perhaps 
getting a lift in a cart by the way, he would arrive pretty early 
at Snowfield, and bring back Hetty the next day—Dinah too, if 15 
she were coming. It was quite time Hetty came home, and he 
would afford to lose his Monday for the sake of bringing her. 

His project was quite approved at the Farm when he went 
there on Saturday evening. Mrs. Poyser desired him em¬ 
phatically not to come back without Hetty, for she had been 20 
quite too long away, considering the things she had to get 
ready by the middle of March, and a week was surely enough 
°for any one to go out for their health. As for Dinah, Mrs. 
Poyser had small hope of their bringing her, unless they could 
make her believe the folks at Hayslope were twice as miser- 25 
able as the folks at Snowfield. “Though,” said Mrs. Poyser, 
by way of conclusion, “you might tell her she’s got but one 
aunt left, and she's wasted pretty nigh to a shadder; and we 
shall p’rhaps all be gone twenty mile further off her next 

421 


ADAM BEDE 


422 

Michaelmas, and shall die o’ broken hearts among strange 
folks, and leave the children fatherless and motherless.” 

“Nay, nay,” said Mr. Poyser, who certainly had the air of 
a man perfectly heart-whole, “it isna so bad as that. Thee t 
s looking rarely now, and getting flesh every day. But I’d be 
glad for Dinah t’ come, for she’d help thee wi’ the little uns: 
they took t’ her wonderful.” 

So at daybreak, on Sunday, Adam set off*. Seth went with 
him the first mile or two, for the thought of Snowfield, and the 
10 possibility that Dinah might come again, made him restless, and 
the walk with Adam in the cold morning air, both in their best 
clothes, helped to give him a sense of Sunday calm. It was the 
last morning in February, with a low grey sky, and a slight hoar¬ 
frost on the green border of the road and on the black hedges. 
15 They heard the gurgling of the full brooklet hurrying down the 
hill, and the faint twittering of the early birds. For they walked 
in silence, though with a pleased sense of companionship. 

“Good-bye, lad,” said Adam, laying his hand on Seth’s 
shoulder, and looking at him affectionately as they were about 
20 to part. “I wish thee wast going all the way wi’ me, and as 
happy as I am.” 

‘Tm content, Addy, I’m content,” said Seth, cheerfully. “I’ll 
be an old bachelor, belike, and make a fuss wi’ thy children.” 

They turned away from each other, and Seth walked lei- 
25 surely homeward, mentally repeating one of his favourite 
hymns—he was very fond of hymns: 

“Dark and cheerless is the morn 
Unaccompanied by thee: 

Joyless is the day’s return 

3 ° Till thy mercy’s beams I see: 

Till thou inward light impart, 

Glad my eyes and warm my heart. 

“Visit, then, this soul of mine, 

Pierce the gloom of sin and grief,— 

35 Fill me, Radiancy Divine, 

Scatter all my unbelief. 

More and more thyself display, 

Shining to the perfect day.” 


423 


THE QUEST 

Adam walked much faster, and any one coming along the 
Oakbourne road at sunrise that morning must have had a 
pleasant sight in this tall broad-chested man, striding along 
with a carriage as upright and firm as any soldier’s, glancing 
with keen glad eyes at the dark-blue hills as they began to 
show themselves on his way. Seldom in Adam’s life had his 
face been so free from any cloud of anxiety as it was this 
morning; and this freedom from care, as is usual with con¬ 
structive practical minds like his, made him all the more 
observant of the objects round him, and all the more ready to 
gather suggestions from them towards his own favourite plans 
and ingenious contrivances. His happy love—the knowledge 
that his steps were carrying him nearer and nearer to Hetty, 
who was so soon to be his—was to his thoughts what the sweet 
morning air was to his sensations: it gave him a conscious¬ 
ness of wellbeing that made activity delightful. Every now 
and then there was a rush of more intense feeling towards her, 
which chased away other images than Hetty; and along with 
that would come a wondering thankfulness that all this happi¬ 
ness was given to him—that this life of ours had such sweet¬ 
ness in it. For Adam had a devout mind, though he was per¬ 
haps rather impatient of devout words; and his tenderness lay 
very close to his reverence, so that the one could hardly be 
stirred without the other. But after feeling had welled up 
and poured itself out in this way, busy thought would come 
back with the greater vigour; and this morning it was intent 
on schemes by which the roads might be improved that were 
so imperfect all through the country, and on picturing all the 
benefits that might come from the exertions of a single country 
gentleman, if he would set himself to getting the roads made 
good in his own district. 

It seemed a very short walk, the ten miles to Oakbourne, 
that pretty town within sight of the blue hills, where he break¬ 
fasted. After this, the country grew barer and barer: no 
more rolling woods, no more wide-branching trees near fre¬ 
quent homesteads, no more bushy hedgerows; but grey stone 
walls intersecting the meagre pastures, and dismal wide- 
scattered grey stone houses on broken lands where mines had 


424 


ADAM BEDE 


been and were no longer. “A hungry land,” said Adam to 
himself. “I’d rather go south’ard, where they say it s as hat 
as a table, than come to live here; though if Dinah likes to 
live in a country where she can be the most comfort to folks, 
5 she’s i’ the right to live o’ this side; for she must look as if 
she’d come straight from heaven, like th angels in the desert, 
to strengthen them as ha’ got nothing t’ eat.” And when at 
last he came in sight of Snowfield, he thought it looked like a 
town that was “fellow to the country, though the stream 
io through the valley where the great mill stood gave a pleasant 
greenness to the lower fields. The town lay, grim, stony, and 
unsheltered, up the side of a steep hill, and Adam did not go 
forward to it at present, for Seth had told him where to find 
Dinah. It was at a thatched cottage outside the town, a little 
IS way from the mill—an old cottage, standing sideways towards 
the road, with a little bit of potato-ground before it. Here 
Dinah lodged with an elderly couple; and if she and Hetty 
happened to be out, Adam could learn where they were gone, 
or when they would be at home again. Dinah might be out 
20 on some preaching errand, and perhaps she would have left 
Hetty at home. Adam could not help hoping this, and as he 
recognised the cottage by the roadside before him, there shone 
out in his face that involuntary smile which belongs to the ex¬ 
pectation of a near joy. 

25 He hurried his step along the narrow causeway, and rapped 
at the door. It was opened by a very clean old woman, w ith 
a slow palsied shake of the head. 

“Is Dinah Morris at home?” said Adam. 

“Eh? . . . no,” said the old woman, looking up at this 
30 tall stranger with a wonder that made her slower of speech 
than usual. “ Will you please to come in ? ” she added, retiring 
from the door, as if recollecting herself. “Why, ye’re brother 
to the young man as come afore, arena ye?” 

“Yes,” said Adam, entering. “That was Seth Bede. I’m 
35 his brother Adam. He told me to give his respects to you and 
your good master.” 

“Ay, the same t’ him: he was a gracious young man. An’ 


THE QUEST 


425 


ye feature him, on’y ye’re darker. Sit ye down i’ th’ arm¬ 
chair. My man isna come home from meeting.” 

Adam sat down patiently, not liking to hurry the shaking 
old woman with questions, but looking eagerly towards the 
narrow twisting stairs in one corner, for he thought it was 5 
possible Hetty might have heard his voice, and would come 
down them. 

“ So you’re come to see Dinah Morris ? ” said the old woman, 
standing opposite to him. “An’ you didna know she was 
away from home, then?” 1° 

“No,” said Adam, “but I thought it likely she might be 
away, seeing as it’s Sunday. But the other young woman— 
is she at home, or gone along with Dinah?” 

The old woman looked at Adam with a bewildered air. 

“Gone along wi’ her?” she said. “Eh, Dinah’s gone to 15 
°Leeds, a big town ye may ha’ heared on, where there’s a 
many o’ the Lord’s people. She’s been gone °sin’ Friday was 
a fortnight: they sent her the money for her journey. You 
may see her room here,” she went on, opening a door, and not 
noticing the effect of her words on Adam. He rose and fol- 20 
lowed her, and darted an eager glance into the little room, 
with its narrow bed, the portrait of Wesley on the wall, and 
the few books lying on the large Bible. He had had an irra¬ 
tional hope that Hetty might be there. He could not speak 
in the first moment after seeing that the room was empty; 25 
an undefined fear had seized him—something had happened 
to Hetty on the journey. Still the old woman was so slow 
of speech and apprehension, that Hetty might be at Snowfield 
after all. 

“It’s a pity ye didna know,” she said. Have ye come30 
from your own country o’ purpose to see her?” 

“ But Hetty—Hetty Sorrel,” said Adam, abruptly; “where 


“I know nobody by that name,” said the old woman, won- 
deringly. “Is it anybody ye’ve heared on at Snowfield?” 35 
“Did there come no young woman here—very young and 
pretty—Friday was a fortnight, to see Dinah Morris ? 


ADAM BEDE 


426 

“Nay; I’n seen no young woman.” 

“Think; are you quite sure? A girl, eighteen years old, 
with dark eyes and dark curly hair, and a red cloak on, and 
a basket on her arm ? You couldn’t forget her if you saw her.” 

5 “Nay: Friday was a fortnight—it was the day as Dinah 
went away—there come nobody. There’s ne’er been nobody 
asking for her till you come, for the folks about know as she’s 
gone. Eh dear, eh dear, is there summat the matter?” 

The old woman had seen the ghastly look of fear in Adam’s 
10 face. But he was not stunned or confounded: he was think¬ 
ing eagerly where he could inquire about Hetty. 

“Yes; a young woman started from our country to see 
Dinah, Friday was a fortnight. I came to fetch her back. I’m 
afraid something has happened to her. I can’t stop. Good- 
15 bye.” 

He hastened out of the cottage, and the old woman fol¬ 
lowed him to the gate, watching him sadly with her shaking 
head, as he almost ran towards the town. He was going to 
inquire at the place where the Oakbourne coach stopped. 

20 No! no young woman like Hetty had been seen there. Had 
any accident happened to the coach a fortnight ago? No. 
And there was no coach to take him back to Oakbourne that 
day. Well, he would walk: he couldn’t stay here, in wretched 
inaction. But the innkeeper, seeing that Adam was in great 
25 anxiety, and entering into this new incident with the eager¬ 
ness of a man who passes a great deal of time with his hands 
in his pockets looking into an obstinately monotonous street, 
offered to take him back to Oakbourne in his own “taxed 
cart” this very evening. It was not five o’clock; there was 
30 plenty of time for Adam to take a meal, and yet to get to 
Oakbourne before ten o’clock. The innkeeper declared that 
he really wanted to go to Oakbourne, and might as well go to¬ 
night; he should have all Monday before him then. Adam, 
after making an ineffectual attempt to eat, put the food in 
35 his pocket, and, drinking a draught of ale, declared himself 
ready to set off. As they approached the cottage, it occurred 
to him that he would do well to learn from the old woman 


THE QUEST 


427 


where Dinah was to be found in Leeds: if there was trouble at 
the Hall Farm—he only half admitted the foreboding that 
there would be—the Poysers might like to send for Dinah. 
But Dinah had not left any address, and the old woman, 
whose memory for names was infirm, could not recall the 5 
name of the “blessed woman” who was Dinah’s chief friend 
in the Society at Leeds. 

During that long, long journey in the taxed cart, there was 
time for all the conjectures of importunate fear and struggling 
hope. In the very first shock of discovering that Hetty had 10 
not been to Snowfield, the thought of Arthur had darted 
through Adam like a sharp pang: but he tried for some time 
to ward off its return by busying himself with modes of ac¬ 
counting for the alarming fact, quite apart from that intoler¬ 
able thought. Some accident had happened. Hetty had, by 15 
some strange chance, got into a wrong vehicle from Oak- 
bourne: she had been taken ill, and did not want to frighten 
them by letting them know. But this frail fence of vague 
improbabilities was soon hurled down by a rush of distinct 
agonising fears. Hetty had been deceiving herself in thinking 20 
that she could love and marry him: she had been loving Arthur 
all the while: and now, in her desperation at the nearness 
of their marriage, she had run away. And she was gone to him. 
The old indignation and jealousy robe again, and prompted 
the suspicion that Arthur had been dealing falsely—had writ- 25 
ten to Hetty—had tempted her to come to him—being un¬ 
willing, after all, that she should belong to another man be¬ 
sides himself. Perhaps the whole thing had been contrived 
by him, and he had given her directions how to follow him 
to Ireland: for Adam knew that Arthur had been gone thither 30 
three weeks ago, having recently learnt it at the Chase. 
Every sad look of Hetty’s, since she had been engaged to 
Adam, returned upon him now with all the exaggeration 
of painful retrospect. He had been foolishly sanguine and 
confident. The poor thing hadn’t perhaps know her own 35 
mind for a long while; had thought that she could forget 
Arthur; had been momentarily drawn towards the man who 


ADAM BEDE 


428 

offered her a protecting, faithful love. He couldn’t bear 
to blame her: she never meant to cause him this dreadtul 
pain The blame lay with that man who had selfishly played 
with her heart—had perhaps even deliberately lured her 

At Oakbourne, the ostler at the Royal Oak remembered 
such a young woman as Adam described getting out of the 
Treddleston coach more than a fortnight ago—wasn’t likely 
to forget such a pretty lass as that in a hurry—was sure she 
10 had gone on by the Buxton coach that went through Snow- 
field, but had lost sight of her while he went away with the 
horses, and had never set eyes on her again. Adam then 
went straight to the house from which the Stoniton coach 
started: Stoniton was the most obvious place for Hetty to 
15 go to first, whatever might be her destination, for she would 
hardly venture on any but the chief coach-roads. She had 
been noticed here too, and was remembered to have sat on the 
box by the coachman; but the coachman could not be seen, 
for another man had been driving on that road in his stead 
20 the last three or four days: he could probably be seen at Stoni¬ 
ton, through inquiry at the inn where the coach put up. So 
the anxious heart-stricken Adam must of necessity wait and 
try to rest till morning—nay, till eleven o’clock, when the 
coach started. 

25 At Stoniton another delay occurred, for the old coachman 
who had driven Hetty would not be in the town again till 
night. When he did come he remembered Hetty well, and 
remembered his own joke addressed to her, quoting it many 
times to Adam, and observing with equal frequency that he 
30 thought there was something more than common, because 
Hetty had not laughed when he joked her. But he declared, 
as the people had done at the inn, that he had lost sight of 
Hetty directly she got down. Part of the next morning was 
consumed in inquiries at every house in the town from which 
35 a coach started—(all in vain; for you know Hetty did not 
start from Stoniton by coach, but on foot in the grey morn¬ 
ing)—and then in walking out to the first toll-gates on the 


THE QUEST 


429 


different lines of road, in the forlorn hope of finding some recol¬ 
lection of her there. No, she was not to be traced any farther; 
and the next hard task for Adam was to go home, and carry 
the wretched tidings to the Hall Farm. As to what he should 
do beyond that, he had come to two distinct resolutions amidst 5 
the tumult of thought and feeling which was going on within 
him while he went to and fro. He would not mention what 
he knew of Arthur Donnithorne’s behaviour to Hetty till 
there was a clear necessity for it: it was still possible Hetty 
might come back, and the disclosure might be an injury or an 10 
offence to her. And as soon as he had been home, and done 
what was necessary there to prepare for his further absence, 
he would start off to Ireland: if he found no trace of Hetty on 
the road he would go straight to Arthur Donnithorne, and 
make himself certain how far he was acquainted with her 15 
movements. Several times the thought occurred to him that 
he would consult Mr. Irwine; but that would be useless unless 
he told him all, and so betrayed the secret about Arthur. 

It seems strange that Adam, in the incessant occupation of 
his mind about Hetty, should never have alighted on the 20 
probability that she had gone to Windsor, ignorant that 
Arthur was no longer there. Perhaps the reason was, that 
he could not conceive Hetty’s throwing herself on Arthur un¬ 
called; he imagined no cause that could have driven her to 
such a step, after that letter written in August. There were 25 
but two alternatives in his mind: either Arthur had written 
to her again and enticed her away, or she had simply fled 
from! her approaching marriage with himself, because she 
found, after all, she could not love him well enough, and yet 
was afraid of her friends’ anger if she retracted. 30 

With this last determination on his mind, of going straight 
to Arthur, the thought that he had spent two days in in¬ 
quiries which had proved to be almost useless, was torturing 
to Adam; and yet, since he would not tell the Poysers his 
conviction as to where Hetty was gone, or his intention to 33 
follow her thither, he must be able to say to them that he had 
traced her as far as possible. 


ADAM BEDE 


430 

It was after twelve o’clock on Tuesday night when Adam 
reached Treddleston; and, unwilling to disturb his mother 
and Seth, and also to encounter their questions at that hour, 
he threw himself without undressing on a bed at the “Waggon 
5 Overthrown,” and slept hard from pure weariness. Not more 
than four hours, however; for before five o’clock he set out on 
his way home in the faint morning twilight. He always kept 
a key of the workshop door in his pocket, so that he could let 
himself in; and he wished to enter without awaking his mother, 
10 for he was anxious to avoid telling her the new trouble himself 
by seeing Seth first, and asking him to tell her when it should 
be necessary. He walked gently along the yard, and turned 
the key gently in the door; but, as he expected, Gyp, who lay 
in the workshop, gave a sharp bark. It subsided when he 
15 saw Adam, holding up his finger at him to impose silence; 
and in his dumb, tailless joy he must content himself with 
rubbing his body against his master’s legs. 

Adam was too heart-sick to take notice of Gyp’s fondling. 
He threw himself on the bench, and stared dully at the wood 
20 and the signs of work around him, wondering if he should ever 
come to feel pleasure in them again; while Gyp, dimly aware 
that there was something wrong with his master, laid his 
rough grey head on Adam’s knee, and wrinkled his brows to 
look up at him. Hitherto, since Sunday afternoon, Adam 
25 had been constantly among strange people and in strange 
places, having no associations with the details of his daily life; 
and now that by the light of this new morning he was come 
back to his home, and surrounded by the familiar objects 
that seemed for ever robbed of their charm, the reality—the 
30 hard, inevitable reality—of his troubles pressed upon him 
with a new weight. Right before him was an unfinished chest 
of drawers, which he had been making in spare moments for 
Hetty’s use, when his home should be hers. 

Seth had not' heard Adam’s entrance, but he had been 
35 roused by Gyp’s bark, and Adam heard him moving about in 
the room above, dressing himself. Seth’s first thoughts were 
about his brother: he would come home to-day, surely, for 


43 i 


THE QUEST 

the business would be wanting him sadly by to-morrow, but it 
was pleasant to think he had had a longer holiday than he 
had expected. And would Dinah come too? Seth felt that 
that was the greatest-happiness he could look forward to for 
himself, though he had no hope left that she would ever love 5 
him well enough to marry him; but he had often said to him¬ 
self, it was better to be Dinah’s friend and brother than any 
other woman’s husband. If he could but be always near her, 
instead of living so far off! 

He came down-stairs and opened the inner door leading 10 
from the kitchen into the workshop, intending to let out Gyp; 
but he stood still in the doorway, smitten with a sudden shock 
at the sight of Adam seated listlessly on the bench, pale, un¬ 
washed, with sunken blank eyes, almost like a drunkard in the 
morning. But Seth felt in an instant what the marks meant: 15 
not drunkenness, but some great calamity. Adam looked up 
at him without speaking, and Seth moved forward towards the 
bench, himself trembling so that speech did not come readily. 

“God have mercy on us, Addy,” he said, in a low voice, 
sitting down on the bench beside Adam, “what is it?” 20 

Adam was unable to speak: the strong man, accustomed 
to suppress the signs of sorrow, had felt his heart swell like a 
child’s at this first approach of sympathy. He fell on Seth’s 
neck and sobbed. 

Seth was prepared for the worst now, for, even in his recol-25, 
lections of their boyhood, Adam had never sobbed before. 

“Is it death, Adam? Is she dead?” he asked, in a low tone, 
when Adam raised his head and was recovering himself. 

“No, lad; but she’s gone—gone away from us. She’s never 
been to Snowfield. Dinah’s been gone to Leeds ever since 30 
last Friday was a fortnight, the very day Hetty set out. I 
can’t find out where she went after she got to Stoniton.” 

Seth was silent from utter astonishment: he knew nothing 
that could suggest to him a reason for Hetty s going away. 

“Hast any notion what she’s done it for?” he said, at35 
last. 

“She can’t ha’ loved me: she didn’t like our marriage when 


432 


ADAM BEDE 


it came nigh—that must be it,” said Adam. He had deter¬ 
mined to mention no further reason. 

“I hear mother stirring,” said Seth. “Must we tell her?” 

“No, not yet,” said Adam, rising from the bench, and push- 
s ing the hair from his face, as if he wanted to rouse himself. 
“I can’t have her told yet; and I must set out on another 
journey directly, after I’ve been to the village and th’ Hall 
Farm. I can’t tell thee where I’m going, and thee must say to 
her I’m gone on business as nobody is to know anything about, 
io I’ll go and wash myself now.” Adam moved towards the door 
of the workshop, but after a step or two he turned round, and, 
meeting Seth’s eyes with a calm sad glance, he said, “ I must 
take all the money out o’ the tin box, lad; but if any thing hap¬ 
pens to me, all the rest ’ll be thine, to take care o’ mother with.” 
15 Seth was pale and trembling: he felt there was some terrible 
secret under all this. “Brother,” he said, faintly—he never 
called Adam “brother” except in solemn moments—“I don’t 
believe you’ll do anything as you can’t ask God’s blessing on.” 

“Nay, lad,” said Adam, “don’t be afraid. I’m for doing 
20 nought but what’s a man’s duty.” 

The thought that if he betrayed his trouble to his mother, 
she would only distress’him by words, half of blundering affec¬ 
tion, half of irrepressible triumph that Hetty proved as unfit 
to be his wife as she had always foreseen, brought back some 
25 of his habitual firmness and self-command. He had felt ill 
on his journey home—he told her when she came down,— 
had stayed all night at Treddleston for that reason; and a bad 
headache, that still hung about him this morning, accounted 
for his paleness and heavy eyes. 

30 He determined to go to the village, in the first place; at¬ 
tend to his business for an hour, and give notice to Burge of 
his being obliged to go on a journey, which he must beg him 
not to mention to any one; for he wished to avoid going to the 
Hall Farm near breakfast-time, when the children and serv- 
35 ants would be in the house-place, and there must be exclama¬ 
tions in their hearing about his having returned without 
Hetty. He waited until the clock struck nine before he left 


THE QUEST 


433 


the workyard at the village, and set off, through the fields, 
towards the Farm. It was an immense relief to him, as he 
came near the Home Close, to see Mr. Poyser advancing 
towards him, for this would spare him the pain of going to 
the house. Mr. Poyser was walking briskly this March morn- 5 
ing, with a sense of Spring business on his mind: he was going 
to cast the master’s eye on the shoeing of a new cart-horse, 
carrying his °spud as a useful companion by the way. His 
surprise was great when he caught sight of Adam, but he was 
not a man given to presentiments of evil. 10 

“Why, Adam, lad, is’t you ? Have ye been all this time away, 
and not brought the lasses back, after all? Where are they? 

“No, I’ve not brought ’em,” said Adam, turning round to 
indicate that he wished to walk back with Mr. Poyser. 

“Why,” said Martin, looking with sharper attention at is 
Adam, “ye look bad. Is there anything happened?” 

“Yes,” said Adam, heavily. “A sad things happened. 

I didna find Hetty at Snowfield.” 

Mr. Poyser’s good-natured face showed signs 01 troubled 
astonishment. “Not find her? What’s happened to her? 20 
he said, his thoughts flying at once to bodily accident 

“That I can’t tell, whether anything’s happened to her. 
She never went to Snowfield—she took the coach to Stomton, 
but I can’t learn nothing of her after she got down from the 

Stoniton coach.” , ., ,, . 25 

“Why, you donna mean she’s run away? said Martin, 
standing still, so puzzled and bewildered that the fact did 
not yet make itself felt as a trouble by him. 

“She must ha’ done,” said Adam. “She didn t like our 
marriage when it came to the point—that must be it. She d 30 

mistook her feelings.” . . . , 

Martin was silent for a minute or two, looking on tne 
ground, and rooting up the grass with his spud, without know¬ 
ing what he was doing. His usual slowness was always 
trebled when the subject of speech was painful. At last he 35 
looked up, right in Adam’s face, saying , . . ., 

“Then she didna deserve t’ ha’ ye, my lad. An 1 teel 1 


434 


ADAM BEDE 


fault myself, for she was my niece, and I was allays hot for 
her marr’ing ye. There’s no amends I can make ye, lad—the 
more’s the pity: it’s a sad cut-up for ye, I doubt.” 

Adam could say nothing; and Mr. Poyser, after pursuing 
s his walk for a little while, went on:— 

“I’ll be bound she’s gone after trying to get a lady’s- 
maid’s place, for she’d got that in her head half a year ago, 
and wanted me to gi’ my consent. But I’d thought better 
on her,” he added shaking his head slowly and sadly—“I’d 
io thought better on her, nor to look for this, after she’d gi’en 
y’ her word, an’ everything been got ready.” 

Adam had the strongest motives for encouraging this sup¬ 
position in Mr. Poyser, and he even tried to believe that it 
might possibly be true. He had no warrant for the certainty 
15 that she was gone to Arthur. 

“It was better it should be so,” he said, as quietly as he 
could, “if she felt she couldn’t like me for a husband. Better 
run away before than repent after. I hope you won’t look 
harshly on her if she comes back, as she may do if she finds 
20 it hard to get on away from home.” 

“I canna look on her as I’ve done before,” said Martin, 
decisively. “She’s acted bad by you, and by all of us. But 
I’ll not turn my back on her: she’s but a young un, and it’s 
the first harm I’ve knowed on her. It’ll be a hard job for me 
25 to tell her aunt. Why didna Dinah come back wi’ ye?—she’d 
ha’ helped to pacify her aunt a bit.” 

“ Dinah wasn’t at Snowfield. She’s been gone to Leeds this 
fortnight; and I couldn’t learn from th’ old woman any direc¬ 
tion where she is at Leeds, else I should ha’ brought it you.” 
30 “She’d a deal better be staying wi’ her own kin,” said Mr. 
Poyser, indignantly, “than going preaching among strange 
folks a-that’n.” 

“I must leave you now, Mr. Poyser,” said Adam, “for I’ve 
a deal to see to.” 

35 “Ay, you’d best be after your business, and I must tell the 
missis when I go home. It’s a hard job.” 

“But,” said Adam, “I beg particular, you’ll keep what’s 


THE QUEST 


435 


happened quiet for a week or two. I’ve not told my mother 
yet, and there’s no knowing how things may turn out.” 

“Ay, ay; least said, soonest mended. We’n no need to say 
why the match is broke off, an’ we may hear of her after a bit. 
Shake hands wi’ me, lad: I wish I could make thee amends.” 5 

There was something in Martin Poyser’s throat at that 
moment which caused him to bring out those scanty words 
in rather a broken fashion. Yet Adam knew what they meant 
all the better; and the two honest men grasped each other s 
hard hands in mutual understanding. 10 

There was nothing now to hinder Adam from setting ott. 

He had told Seth to go to the Chase, and leave a message for 
the Squire, saying that Adam Bede had been obliged to start 
off suddenly on a journey—and to say as much, and no more, 
to any one else who made inquiries about him. If the roysers is 
learned that he was gone away again, Adam knew they would 
infer that he was gone in search of Hetty. 

He had intended to go right on his way from the Hall h arm; 
but now the impulse which had frequently visited him before 
—to go to Mr. Irwine, and make a confidant of him—recurred 20 
with the new force which belongs to a last opportunity. He 
was about to start on a long journey—a difficult one by sea 
—and no soul would know where he was gone. It anything 
happened to him? or, if he absolutely needed help in any 
matter concerning Hetty? Mr. Irwine was to be trusted; 25 
and the feeling which made Adam shrink from telling any- 
thing which was her secret, must give way before the need 
there was that she should have some one else besides himself, 
who would be prepared to defend her in the worst extremity. 
Towards Arthur, even though he might have incurred no 30 
new guilt, Adam felt that he was not bound to keep silence 
whenHetty’s interest called on him to speak. 

“I must do it,” said Adam, when these thoughts, which 
had spread themselves through hours of his sad journey- 
in", now rushed upon him in an instant, like a wave that had 3S 
been slowly gathering; “it’s the right thing. I can t stand 
alone in this way any longer.” 


CHAPTER XXXIX 


THE TIDINGS 

Adam turned his face towards Broxton and walked with 
his swiftest stride, looking at his watch with the fear that Mr. 
Irwine might be gone out—hunting, perhaps. The fear and 
haste together produced a state of strong excitement before he 
5 reached the Rectory gate; and outside it he saw the deep 
marks of a recent hoof on the gravel. 

But the hoofs were turned towards the gate, not away from 
it; and though there was a horse against the stable door, it 
was not Mr. Irwine’s: it had evidently had a journey this 
io morning, and must belong to some one who had come on 
business. Mr. Irwine was at home, then; but Adam could 
hardly find breath and calmness to tell Carroll that he wanted 
to speak to the Rector. The double suffering of certain and 
uncertain sorrow had begun to shake the strong man. The 
15 butler looked at him wonderingly, as he threw himself on a 
bench in the passage and stared absently at the clock on the 
opposite wall; the master had somebody with him, he said, 
but he heard the study door open—the stranger seemed to be 
coming out, and as Adam was in a hurry, he would let the 
20 master know at once. 

Adam sat looking at the clock: the minute-hand was hurry¬ 
ing along the last five minutes to ten, with a loud hard in¬ 
different tick, and Adam watched the movement and listened 
to the sound as if he had had some reason for doing so. In 
25 our times of bitter suffering, there are almost always these 
pauses, when our consciousness is benumbed to everything 
but some trivial perception or sensation. It is as if semi-idiocy 
came to give us rest from the memory and the dread which 
refuse to leave us in our sleep. 

436 


THE TIDINGS 


437 


Carroll, coming back, recalled Adam to the sense of his 
burthen. He was to go into the study immediately. “I 
can’t think what that strange person’s come about,” the but¬ 
ler added, from mere incontinence of remark, as he preceded 
Adam to the door, “ he’s gone i’ the dining-room. And master 5 
looks unaccountable—as if he was frightened.” Adam took 
no notice of the words: he could not care about other people’s 
business. But when he entered the study and looked in 
Mr. Irwine’s face, he felt in an instant that there was a new 
expression in it, strangely different from the warm friendliness i<? 
it had always worn for him before. A letter lay open on the 
table, and Mr. Irwine’s hand was on it; but the changed glance 
he cast on Adam could not be owing entirely to preoccupation 
with some disagreeable business, for he was looking eagerly 
towards the door, as if Adam’s entrance were a matter of 15 
poignant anxiety to him. 

“You want to speak to me, Adam,” he said, in that low 
constrainedly quiet tone which a man uses when he is deter¬ 
mined to suppress agitation. “Sit down here.” He pointed 
to a chair just opposite to him, at no more than a yard’s dis- 20 
tance from his own, and Adam sat down with a sense that 
this cold manner of Mr. Irwine’s gave an additional unex¬ 
pected difficulty to his disclosure. But when Adam had made 
up his mind to a measure, he was not the man to renounce it 
for any but imperative reasons. 25 

“I come to you, sir,” he said, “as the gentleman I look up 
to most of anybody. I’ve something very painful to tell you— 
something as it’ll pain you to hear as well as me to tell. But 
if I speak o’ the wrong other people have done, you’ll see I 
didn’t speak till I’d good reason. 30 

Mr. Irwine nodded slowly, and Adam went on rather 
tremulously— 

“You was t’ ha’ married me and Hetty Sorrel, you know, 
sir, o’ the fifteenth o’ this month. I thought she loved me, 
and I was th’ happiest man i’ the parish. But a dreadful 35 
blow’s come upon me.” 

Mr. Irwine started up from his chair, as if involuntarily, 


ADAM BEDE 


438 

but then, determined to control himself, walked to the window 
and looked out.” 

“She’s gone away, sir, and we don’t know where. She said 
she was going to Snowfield o’ Friday was a fortnight, and I 
s went last Sunday to fetch her back; but she’d never been 
there, and she took the coach to Stoniton, and beyond that 
I can’t trace her. But now I’m going a long journey to look 
for her, and I can’t trust t’ anybody but you where I’m going.” 

Mr. Irwine came back from the window and sat down. > 
10 “Have you no idea of the reason why she went away? 
he said. . . „ 

“ It’s plain enough she didn’t want to marry me, sir, said 
Adam. “She didn’t like it when it came so near. But that 
isn’t all, I doubt. There’s something else I must tell you, sir. 
15 There’s somebody else concerned besides me.” 

A gleam of something—it was almost like relief or joy— 
came across the eager anxiety of Mr. Irwine’s face at that 
moment. Adam was looking on the ground, and paused a 
little: the next words were hard to speak. But when he went 
*0 on, he lifted up his head and looked straight at Mr. Irwine. 
He would do the thing he had resolved to do, without flinching. 

“You know who’s the man I’ve reckoned my greatest 
friend,” he said, “and used to be proud to think as I should 
pass my life i’ working for him, and had felt so ever since we 
25 were lads” .... 

Mr. Irwine, as if all self-control had forsaken him, grasped 
Adam’s arm, which lay on the table, and, clutching it tightly 
like a man in pain, said, with pale lips and a low hurried 
voice— 

30 “No, Adam, no—don’t say it, for God’s sake!” 

Adam, surprised at the violence of Mr. Irwine’s feeling, 
repented of the words that had passed his lips, and sat in dis¬ 
tressed silence. The grasp on his arm gradually relaxed, and 
Mr. Irwine threw himself back in his chair, saying, “Go on— 
35 I must know it.” 

“That man played with Hetty’s feelings, and behaved to 
her as he’d no right to do to a girl in her station o’ life—made 


THE TIDINGS 


439 


her presents, and used to go and meet her out a-walking: I 
found it out only two days before he went away—found him 
a-kissing her as they were parting in the Grove. There’d 
been nothing said between me and Hetty then, though I’d 
loved her for a long while, and she knew it. But I reproached 5 
him with his wrong actions, and words and blows passed 
between us; and he said solemnly to me, after that, as it had 
been all nonsense, and no more than a bit o’ flirting. But I 
made him write a letter to tell Hetty he’d meant nothing; 
for I saw clear enough, sir, by several things as I hadn’t un- 10 
derstood at the time, as he’d got hold of her heart, and I 
thought she’d belike go on thinking of him, and never come 
to love another man as wanted to marry her. And I gave her 
the letter, and she seemed to bear it all after a while better 
than I’d expected . . . and she behaved kinder and kinder 15 
to me . .1 daresay she didn’t know her own feelings then, 
poor thing, and they came back upon her when it was too 
late ... I don’t want to blame ... I can’t think as she 
meant to deceive me. But I was encouraged to think she 
loved me, and—you know the rest, sir. But it’s on my mind 20 
as he’s been false to me, and ’ticed her away, and she’s gone 
to him—and I’m going now to see; for I can never go to work 
again till I know what’s become of her.” 

During Adam’s narrative, Mr. Irwine had had time to 
recover his self-mastery in spite of the painful thoughts that 25 
crowded upon him. It was a bitter remembrance to him 
now —that morning when Arthur breakfasted with him, and 
seemed as if he were on the verge of a confession. It was plain 
enough now what he had wanted to confess. And if their 
words had taken another turn . . . if he himself had been 30 

less fastidious about intruding on another man’s secrets . . . 

it was cruel to think how thin a film had shut out rescue from 
all this guilt and misery. He saw the whole history now by 
that terrible illumination which the present sheds back upon 
the past. But every other feeling as it rushed upon him was 35 
thrown into abeyance by pity, deep respectful pity, for the 
man who sat before him,—already so bruised, going forth 


440 


ADAM BEDE 


with sad blind resignedness to an unreal sorrow, while a real 
one was close upon him, too far beyond the range of common 
trial for him ever to have feared it. His own agitation was 
quelled by a certain awe that comes over us in the presence of 
5 a great anguish; for the anguish he must inflict on Adam 
was already present to him. Again he put his hand on the 
arm that lay on the table, but very gently this time, as he said 
solemnly— 

“Adam, my dear friend, you have had some hard trials 
io in your life. You can bear sorrow manfully, as well as act 
manfully: God requires both tasks at our hands. And there 
is a heavier sorrow coming upon you than any you have yet 
known. But you are not guilty—you have not the worst of 
all sorrows. God help him who has!” 

15 The two pale faces looked at each other; in Adam’s there 
was trembling suspense, in Mr. Irwine’s hesitating, shrinking 
pity. But he went on. 

“I have had news of Hetty this morning. She is not gone 
to him. She is in Stonyshire—at Stoniton.” 

20 Adam started up from his chair, as if he thought he could 
have leaped to her that moment. But Mr. Irwine laid hold 
of his arm again, and said, persuasively, “Wait, Adam, wait.” 
So he sat down. 

“She is in a very unhappy position—one which will make 
25 it worse for you to find her, my poor friend, than to have lost 
her for ever.” 

Adam’s lips moved tremulously, but no sound came. They 
moved again, and he whispered, “Tell me.” 

“She has been arrested . . . she is in prison.” 

.30 It was as if an insulting blow had brought back the spirit 
of resistance into Adam. The blood rushed to his face, and 
he said, loudly and sharply— 

“For what?” 

“For a great crime—the murder of her child.” 

35 “It cant be!” Adam almost shouted, starting up from his 
chair, and making a stride towards the door; but he turned 
round again, setting his back against the bookcase, and looking 


THE TIDINGS 


441 


fiercely at Mr. Irwine. “It isn’t possible. She never had a 
child. She can’t be guilty. Who says it?” 

“God grant she may be innocent, Adam. We can still hope 
she is.” 

“ But who sajAs she is guilty?” said Adam, violently. “Tell 5 
me everything.” 

“Here is a letter from the magistrate before whom she was 
taken, and the constable who arrested her is in the dining¬ 
room. She will not confess her name or where she comes 
from; but I fear, I fear, there can be no doubt it is Hetty. 10 
The description of her person corresponds, only that she is 
said to look very pale and ill. She had a small red-leather 
pocket-book in her pocket with two names written in it—one 
at the beginning, ‘Hetty Sorrel, Hayslope,’ and the other 
near the end, ‘Dinah Morris, Snowfield.’ She will not say is 
which is her own name—she denies everything, and will 
answer no questions; and application has been made to me, 
as a magistrate, that I may take measures for identifying her, 
for it was thought probable that the name which stands first 
is her own name.” 20 

“But what proof have they got against her, if it is Hetty?” 
said Adam, still violently, with an effort that seemed to shake 
his whole frame. “I’ll not believe it. It couldn’t ha’ been, 
and none of us know it.” 

“Terrible proof that she was under the temptation to com- 25 
mit the crime; but we have room to hope that she did not 
really commit it. Try and read that letter, Adam.” 

Adam took the letter between his shaking hands, and tried 
to fix his eyes steadily on it. Mr. Irwine meanwhile went out 
to give some orders. When he came back, Adam’s eyes were 30 
still on the first page—he couldn’t read—he could not put 
the words together, and make out what they meant. He 
threw it down at last, and clenched his first. 

“It’s his doing,” he said; “if there’s been any crime, it’s 
at his door, not at hers. He taught her to deceive— he de-35 
ceived me first. Let ’em put him on his trial—let him stand in 
court beside her, and I’ll tell ’em how he got hold of her heart, 


442 


ADAM BEDE 


and ’ticed her t’ evil, and then lied to me. Is he to go free, while 
they lay all the punishment on her . . . so weak and young?” 

The image called up by these last words gave a new direc¬ 
tion to poor Adam’s maddened feelings. He was silent, look- 
s ing at the corner of the room as if he saw something there. 
Then he burst out again, in a tone of appealing anguish— 

“1 cant bear it . . .0 God, it’s too hard to lay upon 
me—it’s too hard to think she’s wicked.” 

Mr. Irwine had sat down again in silence: he was too wise 
io to utter soothing words at present, and indeed the sight of 
Adam before him, with that look of sudden age which some¬ 
times comes over a yoiing face in moments of terrible emotion 
—the hard bloodless look of the skin, the deep lines about the 
quivering mouth, the furrows in the brow—the sight of this 
15 strong firm man shattered by the invisible stroke of sorrow, 
moved him so deeply that speech was not easy. Adam stood 
motionless, with his eyes vacantly fixed in this way for a min¬ 
ute or two; in that short space he was living through all his 
love again. 

20 “She can’t ha’ done it,” he said, still without moving his 
eyes, as if he were only talking to himself: “it was fear made 
her hide it ... I forgive her for deceiving me ... I for¬ 
give thee, Hetty . . . thee wast deceived too . . . it’s 
gone hard wi’ thee, my poor Hetty . . t but they’ll never 
25 make me believe it.” 

He was silent again for a few moments, and then he said, 
with fierce abruptness— 

“I’ll go to him—I’ll bring him back—I’ll make him go and 
look at her in her misery—he shall look at her till he can’t 
30 forget it—it shall follow him night and day—as long as he 
lives it shall follow him—he shan’t escape wi’ lies this time— 
I’ll fetch him, I’ll drag him myself.” 

In the act of going towards the door, Adam paused auto¬ 
matically and looked about for his hat, quite unconscious 
35 where he was, or who was present with him. Mr. Irwine had 
followed him, and now took him by the arm, saying, in a quiet 
but decided tone— 


THE TIDINGS 


443 


“No, Adam, no; I’m sure you will wish to stay and see 
what good can be done for her , instead of going on a useless 
errand of vengeance. The punishment will surely fall with¬ 
out your aid. Besides, he is no longer in Ireland: he must be 
on his way home—or would be, long before you arrived; for 5 
his grandfather, I know, wrote for him to come at least ten days 
ago. I want you now to go with me to Stoniton. I have 
ordered a horse for you to ride with us, as soon as you can 
compose yourself.” 

While Mr. Irwine was speaking, Adam recovered his con- 10 
sciousness of the actual scene: he rubbed his hair off his fore¬ 
head and listened. 

“Remember,” Mr. Irwine went on. “there are others to 
think of, and act for, besides yourself, Adam: there are Hetty’s 
friends, the good Poysers, on whom this stroke will fall more 15 
heavily than I can bear to think. I expect it from your 
strength of mind, Adam—from your sense of duty to God and 
man—that you will try to act as long as action can be of any 
use.” # , 

In reality, Mr. Irwine proposed this journey to Stoniton 20 
for Adam’s own sake. Movement, with some object before 
him, was the best means of counteracting the violence of 
suffering in these first hours. 

“You will go with me to Stoniton, Adam?” he said again, 
after a moment’s pause. “We have to see if it is really Hetty 25 
who is there, you know.” 

“Yes, sir,” said Adam, “I’ll do what you think right. But 
the folks at th’ Hall Farm?” 

“ I wish them not to know till I return to tell them myself. 

I shall have ascertained things then which I am uncertain 30 
about now, and I shall return as soon as possible. Come now, 
the horses are ready.” 


CHAPTER XL 

THE BITTER WATERS SPREAD 

Mr. Irwine returned from Stoniton in a post-chaise that 
night, and the first words Carroll said to him, as he entered 
the house, were, that Squire Donnithorne was dead—found 
dead in his bed at ten o’clock that morning—and that Mrs. 

5 Irwine desired him to say she should be awake when Mr. Ir¬ 
wine came home, and she begged him not go to bed without 

seeing her. , 

“Well, Dauphin,” Mrs. Irwine said, as her son entered her 
room, “you’re come at last. So the old gentleman’s fidgeti- 
io ness and low spirits, which made him send for Arthur in that 
sudden way, really meant something. I suppose Carroll has 
told you that Donnithorne was found dead in his bed this 
morning. * You will believe my prognostications another time, 
though I daresay I shan’t live to prognosticate anything but 
is my own death.” 

“What have they done about Arthur?” said Mr. Irwine. 
“Sent a messenger to await him at Liverpool?” 

“Yes, Ralph was gone before the news was brought to us. 
Dear Arthur, I shall live now to see him master at the Chase, 
20 and making good times on the estate, like a generous-hearted 
fellow as he is. He’ll be as happy as a king now.” 

Mr. Irwine could not help giving a slight groan: he was 
worn with anxiety and exertion, and his mother’s light words 
were almost intolerable. 

25 “What are you so dismal about, Dauphin? Is there any 
bad news? Or are you thinking of the danger for Arthur in 
crossing that frightful °Irish Channel at this time of year?” 

“No, mother, I’m not thinking of that; but I’m not pre¬ 
pared to rejoice just now.” 


444 


THE BITTER WATERS SPREAD 


445 


“You’ve been worried by this law business that youVe 
been to Stoniton about. What in the world is it, that you 
can’t tell me?” 

“You will know by-and-by, mother. It would not be right 
for me to tell you at present. Good-night: you’ll sleep nows 
you have no longer anything to listen for.” 

Mr. Irwine gave up his intention of sending a letter to 
meet Arthur, since it would not now hasten his return: the 
news of his grandfather’s death would bring him as soon as 
he could possibly come. He could go to bed now and get io 
some needful rest, before the time came for the morning’s 
heavy duty of carrying his sickening news to the Hall Farm 
and to Adam’s home. 

Adam himself was not come back from Stoniton, for though 
he shrank from seeing Hetty, he could not bear to go to a 15 
distance from her again. 

“It’s no use, sir,” he said to the Rector—“it’s no use for 
me to go back. I can’t go to work again while she’s here; and 
I couldn’t bear the sight o’ the things and folks round home. 
I’ll take a bit of a room here, where I can see the prison walls, 20 
and perhaps I shall get, in time, to bear seeing her.” 

Adam had not been shaken in his belief that Hetty was 
innocent of the crime she was charged with, for Mr. Irwine, 
feeling that the belief in her guilt would be a crushing addition 
to Adam’s load, had kept from him the facts which left no 25 
hope in his own mind. There was not any reason for thrust¬ 
ing the whole burthen on Adam at once, and Mr. Irwine, at 
parting, only said, “If the evidence should tell too strongly 
against her, Adam, we may still hope for a pardon. Her 
youth and other circumstances will be a plea for her.” 30 

“Ah, and it’s right people should know how she was 
tempted into the wrong way,” said Adam, with bitter earnest¬ 
ness. “It’s right they should know it was a fine gentleman 
made love to her, and turned her head wi’ notions. You’ll 
remember, sir, you’ve promised to tell my mother, and Seth, 35 
and the people at the Farm, who it was as led her wrong, else 
they’ll think harder of her than she deserves. You’ll be 


ADAM BEDE 


446 

doing her a hurt by sparing him, and I hold him the guiltiest 
before God, let her ha’ done what she may. If you spare him, 
I’ll expose him!” . 

“I think your demand is just, Adam, said Mr. Irwine, 
5 “but when you are calmer, you will judge Arthur more merci¬ 
fully. I say nothing now, only that his punishment is in 
other hands than ours.” 

Mr. Irwine felt it hard upon him that he should have to 
tell of Arthur’s sad part in the story of sin and sorrow—he 
10 who cared for Arthur with fatherly affection—who had cared 
for him with fatherly pride. But he saw clearly that the 
secret must be known before long, even apart from Adam s 
determination, since it was scarcely to be supposed that Hetty 
would persist to the end in her obstinate silence. He made 
15 up his mind to withhold nothing from the Poysers, but to tell 
them the worst at once, for there was no time to rob the 
tidings of their suddenness. Hetty’s trial must come on at 
the Lent °assizes, and they were to be held at Stoniton the 
next week. It was scarcely to be hoped that Martin Poyser 
20 could escape the pain of being called as a witness, and it 
was better he should know everything as long beforehand as 
possible. 

Before ten o’clock on Thursday morning the home at the 
Hall Farm was a house of mourning for a misfortune felt to 
25 be worse than death. The sense of family dishonour was too 
keen even in the kind-hearted Martin Poyser the younger, 
to leave room for any compassion towards Hetty. He and 
his father were simple-minded farmers, proud of their un¬ 
tarnished character, proud that they came of a family which 
30 had held up its head and paid its way as far back as its name 
was in the parish register; and Hetty had brought disgrace on 
them all—disgrace that could never be wiped out. That was 
the all-conquering feeling in the mind both of father and son— 
the scorching sense of disgrace, which neutralised all other 
35 sensibility; and Mr. Irwine was struck with surprise to observe 
that Mrs. Poyser was less severe than her husband. We are 
often startled by the severity of mild people on exceptional 


THE BITTER WATERS SPREAD 


447 


occasions; the reason is, that mild people are most liable to be 
under the yoke of traditional impressions. 

“I’m willing to pay any money as is wanted towards trying 
to bring her off,” said Martin the younger when Mr. Irwine 
was gone, while the old grandfather was crying in the opposite 5 
chair, “but Til not go nigh her, nor ever see her again, by my 
own will. She’s made our bread bitter to us for all our lives 
to come, an’ we shall ne’er hold up our heads i’ this parish nor 
i’ any other. The parson talks o’ folks pitying us: it’s poor 

amends pity’ull make us.” 10 

“Pity?” said the grandfather, sharply. I ne er wanted 
folks’s pity i’ my life afore ... an’ I mun begin to be 
looked down on now, an’ me turned seventy-two °last St. 
Thomas’s, an’ all th’ under-bearers and pall-bearers as In 
picked for my funeral are i’ this parish and the next to 1.15 
It’s o’ no use now . . .1 mun be ta’en to the grave 
by strangers.” 

“ Don’t fret so, father,” said Mrs. Poyser, who had spoken 
very little, being almost overawed by her husband s unusual 
hardness and decision. “You’ll have your children wi’ you; 20 
an’ there’s the lads and the little un ’ull grow up in a new 
parish as well as i’ th’ old un.” „ . , 

“Ah, there’s no staying i’ this country for us now, said 
Mr. Poyser, and the hard tears trickled slowly down his round 
cheeks. “We thought it ’ud be bad luck if the old Squire 25 
gave us notice this Lady Day, but I must gi’ notice myself 
now, an’ see if there can anybody be got to come an take to 
the crops as I’n put i’ the ground; for I wonna stay upo that 
man’s land a day longer nor I’m forced to’t. An me, as 
thought him such a good upright young man, as 1 should be 30 
glad when he come to be our landlord. Til ne er lilt my hat 
to him again, nor sit i’ the same church wi’ him ... a man 
as has brought shame on respectable folks . . . an pre¬ 
tended to be such a friend t’ everybody. . . . Poor Adam 
there . . a fine friend he’s been t’ Adam, making speeches 35 
an’ talking so fine, an’ all the while poisoning the lad s life, as 
it’s much if he can stay i’ this country any more nor we can. 


ADAM BEDE 


448 

“An’ you t’ ha’ to go into court, and own you’re akin t’ 
her,” said the old man. “Why, they’ll cast it up to the little 
un, as isn’t four ’ear old, some day—they’ll cast it up t’ her 
as she’d a cousin tried at the ’sizes for murder.” 

5 “It’ll be their own wickedness, then,” said Mrs. Poyser, 
with a sob in her voice. “ But there’s One above ’ull take care 
o’ the innicent child, else it’s but little truth they tell us at 
church. It’ll be harder nor ever to die an’ leave the little uns, 
an’ nobody to be a mother to ’em.” 

10 “We’d better ha’ sent for Dinah, if we’d known where she 
is,” said Mr. Poyser; “but Adam said she’d left no direction 
where she’d be at Leeds.” 

“Why, she’d be wi’ that woman as was a friend t’ her aunt 
Judith,” said Mrs. Poyser, comforted a little by this sugges- 
15 tion of her husband’s. “I’ve often heard Dinah talk of her, . 
but I can’t remember what name she called her by. But 
there’s Seth Bede; he’s like enough to know, for she’s a 
preaching woman as the Methodists think a deal on.” 

“I’ll send to Seth,” said Mr. Poyser. “I’ll send Alick to 
20 tell him to come, or else to send us word o’ the woman’s name, 
an’ thee canst write a letter ready to send off to Treddles’on 
as soon as we can make out a direction.” 

“It’s poor work writing letters when you want folks to 
come to you i’ trouble,” said Mrs. Poyser. “ Happen it’ll be 
25 ever so long on the road, an’ never reach her at last.” 

Before Alick arrived*'with the message, Lisbeth’s thoughts 
too had already flown to Dinah, and she had said to Seth— 

“Eh, there’s no comfort for us i’ this world any more, 
wi’out thee couldst get Dinah Morris to come to us, as she did 
30 when my old man died. I’d like her to come in an’ take me 
by th’ hand again, an’ talk to me: she’d tell me the rights on’t, 
belike—she’d happen know some good i’ all this trouble an’ 
heart-break cornin’ upo’ that poor lad, as ne’er done a bit 
o’ wrong in’s life, but war better nor anybody else’s son, 
35 pick the country round. Eh, my lad . . . Adam, my poor 
lad!” 

“Thee wouldstna like me to leave thee, to go and fetch 


THE BITTER WATERS SPREAD 449 

Dinah?” said Seth, as his mother sobbed, and rocked herself 
to and fro. 

“Fetch her?” said Lisbeth, looking up, and pausing from 
her grief, like a crying child, who hears some promise of con¬ 
solation. “Why, what place is’t she’s at, do they say?” s 

“It’s a good way off, mother—Leeds, a big town.^ But I 
could be back in three days, if thee couldst spare me.” 

“ Nay, nay, I canna spare thee. Thee must go an’ see thy 
brother, an’ bring me word what he’s a-doin’. Mester Irwine 
said he’d come an’ tell me, but I canna make out so well what 10 
it means when he tells me. Thee must go thysen, sin’ Adam 
wonna let me go to him. Write a letter to Dinah, canstna? 
Thee’t fond enough o’ writin’ when nobody wants thee.” 

“I’m not sure where she’d be i’ that big town,” said Seth. 
“If I’d gone myself, I could ha’ found out by asking the is 
members o’ the Society. But perhaps, if I put Sarah William¬ 
son, Methodist preacher, Leeds, o’ th’ outside, it might get to 
her; for most like she’d be wi’ Sarah Williamson.” 

Alick came now with the message, and Seth, finding that 
Mrs. Poyser was writing to Dinah, gave up the intention of 20 
writing himself; but he went to the Hall Farm to tell them all 
lie could suggest about the address of the letter, and warn 
them that there might be some delay in the delivery, from his 
not knowing an exact direction. 

On leaving Lisbeth, Mr. Irwine had gone to Jonathan 25 
Burge, who had also a claim to be acquainted with what was 
likely to keep Adam away from business for some time; and 
before six o’clock that evening there were few people in Brox- 
ton and Hayslope who had not heard the sad news. Mr. 
Irwine had not mentioned Arthur’s name to Burge, and yet 30 
the story of his conduct towards Hetty, with all the dark 
shadows cast upon it by its terrible consequences, was pres¬ 
ently as well known as that his grandfather was dead, and 
that he was come into the estate. For Martin Poyser relt 
no motive to keep silence towards the one or two neighbours 35 
who ventured to come and shake him sorrowfully by the hand 
on the first day of his trouble; and Carroll, who kept his ears 


ADAM BEDE 


45° 

open to all that passed at the Rectory, had framed an infer¬ 
ential version of the story, and found early opportunities of 
communicating it. 

One of those neighbours who came to Martin Poyser and 
s shook him by the hand without speaking for some minutes, 
was Bartle Massey. He had shut up his school, and was on 
his way to the Rectory, where he arrived about half-past seven 
in the evening, and, sending his duty to Mr. Irwine, begged 
pardon for troubling him at that hour, but had something 
10 particular on his mind. He was shown into the study, where 
Mr. Irwine soon joined him. 

“Well, Bartle?” said Mr. Irwine, putting out his hand. 
That was not his usual way of saluting the schoolmaster, but 
trouble makes us treat all who feel with us very much alike. 
15 “Sit down.” 

“You know what I’m come about as well as I do, sir, I dare¬ 
say,” said Bartle. 

“You wish to know the truth about the sad news that 
had reached you . . . about Hetty Sorrel?” 

20 “Nay, sir, what I wish to know is about Adam Bede. I 
understand you left him at Stoniton, and I beg the favour of 
you to tell me what’s the state of the poor lad’s mind, and 
what he means to do. For as for that bit o’ pink-and-white 
they’ve taken the trouble to put in jail, I don’t value her a 
25 rotten nut—not a rotten nut—only for the harm or good that 
may come out of her to an honest man—a lad I’ve set such 
store by—trusted to, that he’d make my bit o’ knowledge go 
a good way in the world. . . . Why, sir, he’s the only scholar 
I’ve had in this stupid country that ever had the will or the 
30 head-piece for mathematics. If he hadn’t had so much hard 
work to do, poor fellow, he might have gone into the higher 
branches, and then this might never have happened—might 
never have happened.” 

Bartle was heated by the exertion of walking fast in an 
35 agitated frame of mind, and was not able to check himself on 
this first occasion of venting his feelings. But he paused now 
to rub his moist forehead, and probably his moist eyes also. 


THE BITTER WATERS SPREAD 45 * 

“You’ll excuse me, sir,” he said, when this pause had given 
him time to reflect, “for running on in this way about my own 
feelings, like that foolish dog of mine, howling in a storm, when 
there’s nobody wants to listen to me. I came to hear you speak, 
not to talk myself; if you’ll take the trouble to tell me what 5 
the poor lad’s doing.” „ ., , , 

“Don’t put yourself under any restraint, Bartle, said Mr. 
Irwine. “The fact is, I’m very much in the same condition 
as you just now; I’ve a great deal that’s painful on my mind, 
and I find it hard work to be quite silent about my own feel- 10 
ings and only attend to others. I share your concern for 
Adam, though he is not the only one whose sufferings I care 
for in this affair. He intends to remain at Stomton till after 
the trial: it will come on probably a week to-morrow. He 
has taken a room there, and I encouraged him to do so, be- is 
cause I think it better he should be away from his own home 
at present; and, poor fellow, he still believes Hetty is inno¬ 
cent—he wants to summon up courage to see her 11 he can, 
he is unwilling to leave the spot where she is. . 

“Do you think the creatur’s guilty, then? said Bartle. 20 
“Do you think they’ll hang her?” 

“I’m afraid it will go hard with her: the evidence is very 
strong. And one bad symptom is that she denies everything 
.—denies that she has had a-child in the face of the most posi¬ 
tive evidence. I saw her myself, and she was obstinately 25 
silent to me; she shrank up like a frightened animal when she 
saw me. I was never so shocked, in my life as at the change in 
her. But I trust that, in the worst case, we may obtain a 
pardon for the sake of the innocent who are involved. 

“Stuff and nonsense!” said Bartle, forgetting in his irrita-30 
tion to whom he was speaking—“I beg your pardon, sir, i 
mean it’s stuff and nonsense for the innocent to care about 
her being hanged. For my own part, I think the sooner such 
women are put out o’ the world the better; and the men that 
help ’em to do mischief had better go along with em for that 35 
matter. What good will you do by keeping such vermin alive ? 
eating the victuals that ’ud feed rational beings. But it 


ADAM BEDE 


452 

Adam’s fool enough to care about it, I don’t want him to 
suffer more than’s needful. . . . Is he very much cut up, 
poor fellow?” Bartle added, taking out his spectacles and put¬ 
ting them on, as if they would assist his imagination, 
s “Yes, I’m afraid the grief cuts very deep,” said Mr. Ir- 
wine. “He looks terribly shattered, and a certain violence 
came over him now and then yesterday, which made me wish 
I could have remained near him. But I shall go to Stoniton 
again to-morrow, and I have confidence enough in the strength 
10 of Adam’s principle to trust that he will be able to endure the 
worst without being driven to anything rash.” 

Mr. Irwine, who was involuntarily uttering his own 
thoughts rather than addressing Bartle Massey in the last 
sentence, had in his mind the possibility that the spirit of 
is vengeance towards Arthur, which was the form Adam’s 
anguish was continually taking, might make him seek an en¬ 
counter that was likely to end more fatally than the one in the 
Grove. This possibility heightened the anxiety with which he 
looked forward to Arthur’s arrival. But Bartle thought Mr. 
20 Irwine was referring to suicide, and his face wore a new alarm. 

“I’ll tell you what I have in my head, sir,” he said, “and 
I hope you’ll approve of it. I’m going to shut up my school: 
if the scholars come, they must go back again, that’s all: 
and I shall go to Stoniton and look after Adam till this busi- 
25 ness is over. I’ll pretend I’m come to look on at the assizes; 
he can’t object to that. What do you think about it, sir?” 

“Well,” said Mr. Irwine, rather hesitatingly, “there would 
be some real advantages in that . . . and I honour you for 
your friendship towards him, Bartle. But . . . you must 
30 be careful what you say to him, you know. I’m afraid you 
have too little fellow-feeling in what you consider his weak¬ 
ness about Hetty.” 

“Trust to me, sir—trust to me. I know what you mean. 
I’ve been a fool myself in my time, but that’s between you 
35 and me. I shan’t thrust myself on him—only keep my eye 
on him, and see that he gets some good food, and put in a 
word here and there.” 


THE BITTER WATERS SPREAD 


4 53 

“Then,” said Mr. Irwine, reassured a little as to Bartle’s 
discretion, “I think you’ll be doing a good deed; and it will 
be well for you to let Adam’s mother and brother know that 
you’re going.” 

“Yes, sir, yes,” said Bartle, rising, and taking off hiss 
spectacles, “I’ll do that, I’ll do that; though the mother’s a 
whimpering thing—I don’t like to come within earshot of her; 
however, she’s a straight-backed, clean woman, none of your 
slatterns. I wish you good-bye, sir, and thank you for the 
time you’ve spared me. You’re everybody’s friend in this io 
business—everybody’s friend. It’s a heavy weight you’ve 
got on your shoulders.” 

“Good-bye, Bartle, till we meet at Stoniton, as I daresay 
we shall.” 

Bartle hurried away from the Rectory, evading Carroll’s is 
conversational advances, and saying in an exasperated tone 
to Vixen, whose short legs pattered beside him on the gravel— 

“Now, I shall be obliged to take you with me, you good- 
for-nothing woman. You’d go fretting yourself to death if I 
left you—you know you would, and perhaps get snapped up 20 
by some tramp; and you’ll be running into bad company, I 
expect, putting your nose in every hole and corner where 
you’ve no business! but if you do anything disgraceful, I’ll 
disown you—mind that, madam, mind that!” 


CHAPTER XLI 

THE EVE OF THE TRIAL 

An upper room in a dull Stoniton street, with two beds m 
it—one laid on the floor. It is ten o’clock on Thursday night, 
and the dark wall opposite the window shuts out the moon¬ 
light that might have struggled with the light of the one dip 
5 candle by which Bartle Massey is pretending to read, while he 
is really looking over his spectacles at Adam Bede, seated 
near the dark window. 

You would hardly have known it was Adam without being 
told. His face has got thinner this last week: he has the sunk- 
ioen eyes, the neglected beard of a man just risen from a sick¬ 
bed. His heavy black hair hangs over his forehead, and there 
is no active impulse in him which inclines him to push it oft. 
that he may be more awake to what is around him. He has 
one arm over the back of the chair, and he seems to be look- 
15 ing down at his clasped hands. He is roused by a knock at 
the door. , 

“There he is,” said Bartle Massey, rising hastily and un¬ 
fastening the door. It was Mr. Irwine. 

Adam rose from his chair with instinctive respect, as Mr. 
20 Irwine approached him and took his hand. 

“I’m late, Adam,” he said, sitting down on the chair which 
Bartle placed for him; “but I was later in setting off from 
Broxton than I intended to be, and I have been incessantly 
occupied since I arrived. I have done everything now, how- 
25 ever—everything that can be done to-night, at least. Let 
us all sit down.” . f 

Adam took his chair again mechanically, and Bartle, tor 
whom there was no chair remaining, sat on the bed in the 
background. 


454 



THE EVE OF THE TRIAL 


45,5 


“Have you seen her, sir?” said Adam^tremulously.. 

“Yes, Adam; I and the chaplain have both been with her 
this evening.” 

“Didyou ask her, sir . . . did you say anything about me? 
“Yes,” said Mr. Irwine, with some hesitation, “I spoke of5 
you. I said you wished to see her before the trial, if she con¬ 
sented.” . , 

As Mr. Irwine paused, Adam looked at him with eager, 

questioning eyes. . T 

“You know she shrinks from seeing any one, Adam. It 10 
is not only you—some fatal influence seems to have shut up 
her heart against her fellow-creatures. She has scarcely said 
anything more than ‘ No,’ either to me or the chaplain. Three 
or four days ago, before you were mentioned to her, when 1 
asked her if there was any one of her family whom she would i S 
like to see—to whom she could open her mind, she said, with a 
violent shudder, ‘Tell them not to come near me—I won’t see 

any of them.’ ” . ... 

Adam’s head was hanging down again, and he did not 
speak. There was silence for a few minutes, and then Mr. 20 

Irwine said— . r 

“ I don’t like to advise you against your own feelings, Adam, 
if they now urge you strongly to go and see her to-morrow 
morning, even without her consent. It is just possible not¬ 
withstanding appearances to the contrary, that the interview 25 
might affect her favourably. But I grieve to say 1 have 
scarcely any hope of that. She didn’t seem agitated when I 
mentioned your name; she only said No, in the same cold, 
obstinate way as usual. And if the meeting had no good 
effect on her, it would be pure, useless suffering to you 
severe suffering, I fear. She is very much changed . . . 

Adam started up from his chair, and seized his hat which 
lav on the table. But he stood still then, and looked at Mr. 
Irwine, as if he had a question to ask, which it was yet 
difficult to utter. Bartle Massey rose quietly, turned the key 35 
in the door, and put it in his pocket. 

“Is he come back?” said Adam at last. 


30 


ADAM BEDE 


456 

“No, he is not,” said Mr. Irwine, quietly. “Lay down your 
hat, Adam, unless you like to walk out with me for a little 
fresh air. I fear you have not been out again to-day.” 

“You needn’t deceive me, sir,” said Adam, looking hard 
s at Mr. Irwine, and speaking in a tone of angry suspicion. 
“You needn’t be afraid of me. I only want justice. I want 
him to feel what she feels. It’s his work . . . she was a 
child as it ’ud gone t’ anybody’s heart to look at ... I 
don’t care what she’s done ... it was him brought her to 
10 it. And he shall know it ... he shall feel it ... if 
there’s a just God, he shall feel what it is t’ ha’ brought a 
child like her to sin and misery.” 

“ I’m not deceiving you, Adam,” said Mr. Irwine. “Arthur 
Donnithorne is not come back—was not come back when I 
15 left. I have left a letter for him: he will know all as soon as he 
arrives.” 

“But you don’t mind about it,” said Adam, indignantly. 
“You think it doesn’t matter as she lies there in shame and 
misery, and he knows nothing about it—he suffers nothing.” 
20 “Adam, he will know—he will suffer, long and bitterly. 
He has a heart and a conscience: I can’t be entirely deceived 
in his character. I am convinced—I am sure he didn’t fall 
under temptation without a struggle. He may be weak, but 
he is not callous, not coldly selfish. I am persuaded that this 
25 will be a shock of which he will feel the effects all his life. 
Why do you crave vengeance in this way? No amount of 
torture that you could inflict on him could benefit her” 

“No—O God, no,” Adam groaned out, sinking on his chair 
again; “but then, that’s the deepest curse of all . . . that’s 
30 what makes the blackness of it . . . it can never he undone . 
My poor Hetty . . . she can never be my sweet Hetty 
again . . . the prettiest thing God had made—smiling up 
at me ... I thought she loved me . . . and was good” 

35 Adam’s voice had been gradually sinking into a hoarse 
under-tone, as if he were only talking to himself; but now he 
said abruptly, looking at Mr. Irwine— 


THE EVE OF THE TRIAL 


457 


“ But she isn’t as guilty as they say? You don’t think she is, 
sir? She can’t ha’ done it.” }} 

'‘That perhaps can never be known with certainty, Adam,” 
Mr. Irwine answered, gently. “In these cases we sometimes 
form our judgment on what seems to us strong evidence, and 5 
yet, for want of knowing some small fact, our judgment is 
wrong. But suppose the worst: you have no right to say that 
the guilt of her crime lies with him, and that he ought to bear 
the punishment. It is not for us men to apportion the shares 
of moral guilt and retribution. We find it impossible to avoid 10 
mistakes even in determining who has committed a single 
criminal act, and the problem how far a man is to be held 
responsible for the unforeseen consequences of his own deed, 
is one that might well make us tremble to look into it. The 
evil consequences that may lie folded in a single act of selfish 15 
indulgence, is a thought so awful that it ought surely to awak¬ 
en some feeling less presumptuous than a rash desire to pun¬ 
ish. You have a mind that can understand this fully, Adam, 
when you are calm. Don’t suppose I can t enter into the 
anguish that drives you into this state of revengeful hatred; 20 
but think of this: if you were to obey your passion—for it is 
passion, and you deceive yourself in calling it justice—it 
might be with you precisely as it has been with Arthur; nay, 
worse; your passion might lead you yourself into a horrible 

crime.” . 

“No—not worse,” said Adam, bitterly; “I don’t believe 
it’s worse—I’d sooner do it—I’d sooner do a wickedness as I 
could suffer for by myself, than ha’ brought her to do wicked¬ 
ness and then stand by and see ’em punish her while they 
let me alone; and all for a bit o’ pleasure, as, if he d had a 3 o 
man’s heart in him, he’d ha’ cut his hand off sooner than he d 
ha’ taken it. What if he didn’t foresee what’s happened? 
He foresaw enough: he’d no right to expect anything but 
harm and shame to her. And then he wanted to smooth it 
off wi’ lies. No—there’s plenty o’ things folks are hanged for, 35 
not half so hateful as that: let a man do what he will, if he 
knows he’s to bear the punishment himself, he isn t half so bad 


ADAM BEDE 


458 

as a mean selfish coward as makes things easy t’ himself, and 
knows all the while the punishment ’ll fall on somebody else.” 

“There again you partly deceive yourself, Adam. There 
is no sort of wrong deed of which a man can bear the punish- 
s ment alone; you can’t isolate yourself, and say that the evil 
which is in you shall not spread. Men’s lives are as thoroughly 
blended with each other as the air they breathe: evil spreads 
as necessarily as disease. I know, I feel the terrible extent of 
suffering this sin of Arthur’s has caused to others; but so 
10 does every sin cause suffering to others besides those who 
commit it. An act of vengeance on your part against Arthur 
would simply be another evil added to those we are suffering 
under: you could not bear the punishment alone; you would 
entail the worst sorrows on every one who loves you. You 
15 would have committed an act of blind fury, that would leave 
all the present evils just as they were, and add worse evils to 
them. You may tell me that you meditate no fatal act of 
vengeance: but the feeling in your mind is what gives birth 
to such actions, and as long as you indulge it, as long as you 
20 do not see that to fix your mind on Arthur’s punishment is 
revenge, and not justice, you are in danger of being led on to 
the commission of some great wrong. Remember what you 
told me about °your feelings after you had given that blow to 
Arthur in the Grove.” 

25 Adam was silent: the last words had called up a vivid image 
of the past, and Mr. Irwine left him to his thoughts, while he 
spoke to Bartle Massey about old Mr. Donnithorne’s funeral 
and other matters of an indifferent kind. But at length Adam 
turned round and said, in a more subdued tone— 

30 “I’ve not asked about ’em at th’ Hall Farm, sir. Is Mr. 
Poyser coming?” 

“He is come; he is in Stoniton to-night. But I could not 
advise him to see you, Adam. His own mind is in a very per¬ 
turbed state, and it is best he should not see you till you are 
35 calmer.” 

“Is Dinah Morris come to ’em, sir? Seth said they’d sent 
for her.” 


THE EVE OF THE TRIAL 


459 


“No. Mr. Poyser tells me she was not come when he left. 
They’re afraid the letter has not reached her. It seems they 
had no exact address.” 

Adam sat ruminating a little while, and then said— 

“ I wonder if Dinah ’ud ha’ gone to see her. But perhaps 5 
the Poysers would ha’ been sorely against it, since they won’t 
come nigh her themselves. But I think she would, for the 
Methodists are great folks for going into the prisons; and 
Seth said he thought she would. She’d a very tender way 
with her, Dinah had; I wonder if she could ha’ done any good. 10 
You never saw her, sir, did you?” 

“Yes, I did: I had a conversation with her—she pleased me 
a good deal. And now you mention it, I wish she would come; 
for it is possible that a gentle, mild woman like her might 
move Hetty to open her heart. The jail chaplain is rather 15 
harsh in his manner.” 

“But it’s o’ no use if she doesn’t come, said Adam, sadly. 

“ If I’d thought of it earlier, I would have taken some meas¬ 
ures for finding her out,” said Mr. Irwine, “but it’s too late 
now, I fear . . . Well, Adam, I must go now. Try to get 20 
some rest to-night. God bless you. I’ll see you early to-morrow 
morning.” 


CHAPTER XLII 

THE MORNING OF THE TRIAL 

At one o’clock the next day, Adam was alone in his dull 
upper room; his watch lay before him on the table, as if he 
were counting the long minutes. He had no knowledge of 
what was likely to be said by the witnesses on the trial, for he 
shad shrunk from all the particulars connected with Hetty’s 
arrest and accusation. This brave active man, who would have 
hastened towards any danger or toil to rescue Hetty from an 
apprehended wrong or misfortune, felt himself powerless to 
contemplate irremediable evil and suffering. The susceptibil- 
ioity which would have been am impelling force where there 
was any possibility of action, became helpless anguish when 
he was obliged to be passive, or else sought an active outlet in 
the thought of inflicting justice on Arthur. Energetic natures, 
strong for all strenuous deeds, will often rush away from a 
is hopeless sufferer, as if they were hard-hearted. It is the over¬ 
mastering sense of pain that drives them. They shrink by an 
ungovernable instinct, as they would shrink from laceration. 
Adam had brought himself to think of seeing Hetty, if she 
would consent to see him, because he thought the meeting 
20 might possibly be a good to her—might help to melt away 
this terrible hardness they told him of. If she saw he bore her 
no ill-will for what she had done to him, she might open her 
heart to him. But this resolution had been an immense effort; 
he trembled at the thought of seeing her changed face, as a 
2s timid woman trembles at the thought of the surgeon’s knife; 
and he chose now to bear the long hours of suspense, rather 
than encounter what seemed to him the more intolerable agony 
of witnessing her trial. 

Deep, unspeakable suffering may well be called a baptism, 
460 


THE MORNING OF THE TRIAL 


461 

a regeneration, the initiation into a new state. The yearning 
memories, the bitter regret, the agonised sympathy, the 
struggling appeals to the Invisible Right—all the intense 
emotions which had filled the days and nights of the past week, 
and were compressing themselves again like an eager crowd 5 
into the hours of this single morning, made Adam look back 
on all the previous years as if they had been a dim sleepy 
existence, and he had only now awaked to full consciousness. 

It seemed to him as if he had always before thought it a light 
thing that men should suffer; as if all that he had himself en- 10 
dured and called sorrow before, was only a moment’s stroke 
that had never left a bruise. Doubtless a great anguish may 
do the work of years, and we may come out from that baptism 
of fire with a soul full of new awe and new pity. 

“O God,” Adam groaned, as he leaned on the table, and is 
looked blankly at the face of the watch, “and men have 
suffered like this before . . . and poor helpless young things 
have suffered like her. . . . Such a little while ago looking 
so happy and so pretty . . . kissing ’em all, her grandfather 
and all of ’em, and they wishing her luck. . . . O my poor, 20 
poor Hetty . . . dost think on it now? 

Adam started and looked round towards the door. Vixen 
had begun to whimper, and there was a sound of a stick and 
a lame walk on the stairs. It was Bartle Massey come back. 
Could it be all over? 25 

Bartle entered quietly, and, going up to Adam, grasped his 
hand and said, “I’m just come to look at you, my boy, for 
the folk are gone out of court for a bit.” 

Adam’s heart beat so violently, he was unable to speak— 
he could only return the pressure of his friend’s hand; and 30 
Bartle, drawing up the other chair, came and sat in front of 
him, taking off his hat and his spectacles. 

“That’s a thing never happened to me before,” he ob¬ 
served—“to go out o’ door with my spectacles on. I clean 
forgot to take ’em off.” ... 35 

The old man made this trivial remark, thinking it better 
not to respond at all to Adam’s agitation: he would gather, in 


ADAM BEDE 


462 

an indirect way, that there was nothing decisive to communi¬ 
cate at present. . .. _ , 

“And now,” he said, rising again, I must see to your hav¬ 
ing a bit of the loaf, and some of that wine Mr. Irwine sent 
s this morning. He’ll be angry with me if you don t have it. 
Come, now,” he went on, bringing forward the bottle and the 
loaf, and pouring some wine into a cup, ‘ I must nave a bit and a 
sup myself. Drink a drop with me, my lad—drink with me. 

Adam pushed the cup gently away, and said, entreatingly, 
10 “Tell me about it, Mr. Massey—tell me all about it. Was 
she there? Have they begun?” . 

“Yes, my boy, yes—it’s taken all the time since 1 first went; 
but they’re slow, they’re slow; and there’s the counsel they’ve 
got for her puts a spoke in the wheel whenever he can, and 
is makes a deal to do with cross-examining the witnesses, and 
quarrelling with the other lawyers. That s all he can do for 
the money they give him; and it’s a big sum—it’s a big sum. 
But he’s a ’cute fellow, with an eye that ’ud pick the needles 
out of the hay in no time. If a man had got no feelings, it ud 
20 be as good as a demonstration to listen to what goes on in 
court; but a tender heart makes one stupid. I d have given 
up figures for ever only to have had some good news to bring 
to you, my poor lad.” . 

“But does it seem to be going against her? said Adam. 
2 S “Tell me what they’ve said, I must know it now—I must 
know what they have to bring against her. 

“Why, the chief evidence yet has been the doctors; all 
but Martin Poyser—poor Martin. Everybody in court felt 
for fo m —it was like one sob, the sound they made when he 
30 came down again. The worst was, when they told him to 
look at the prisoner at the bar. It was hard work, poor fellow 
—it was hard work. Adam, my boy, the blow falls heavily 
on him as well as you: you must help poor Martin; you must 
show courage. Drink some wine now, and show me you mean 
35 to bear it like a man.” 

Bartle had made the right sort of appeal. Adam, with an 
air of quiet obedience, took up the cup, and drank a little. 


THE MORNING OF THE TRIAL 


463 


“Tell me how she looked,” he said, presently. 

“Frightened, very frightened, when they first brought her 
in; it was the first sight of the crowd and the judge, poor 
creatur. And there’s a lot o’ foolish women in fine clothes, 
with gewgaws all up their arms and feathers on their heads, 5 
sitting near the judge: they’ve dressed themselves out in that 
way, one ’ud think, to be scarecrows and warnings against 
any man ever meddling with a woman again; they put up 
their glasses, and stared and whispered. But after that she 
stood like a white image, staring down at her hands, and seem- 10 
ing neither to hear nor see anything. And she s as white as a 
sheet. She didn’t speak when they asked her 11 she d plead 
‘guilty’ or ‘not guilty,’ and they pled ‘not guilty for her. 
But when she heard her uncle’s name, there seemed to go a 
shiver right through her; and when they told him to look at 15 
her, she hung her head down, and cowered, and hid her face 
in her hands. He’d much ado to speak, poor man, his 
voice trembled so. And the counsellors,—who look as hard 
as nails mostly,—I saw, spared him as much as they could. 
Mr. Irwine put himself near him, and went with him out so 
o’ court. Ah, it’s a great thing in a man s life to be able to 
stand by a neighbour and uphold him in such trouble as 

th “God bless him, and you too, Mr. Massey,” said Adam, 
in a low voice, laying his hand on Bartle s arm. 25 

“Ay, ay, he’s good metal; he gives the right ring when you 
try him,, our parson does. A man o’ sense—says no more 
than’s needful. He’s not one of those that think they can 
comfort you with chattering, as if .folks who stand by and 
look on knew a deal better what the trouble was than those 30 
who have to bear it. I’ve had to do with such [oiks in my 
time—in the south, when I was in trouble myself. Mr. Ir¬ 
wine is to be a witness himself, by-and-by, on her side, you 
know, to speak to her character and bringing up. 

“But the other evidence . . - does it go^hard a ? ga ^ s /[ 35 
her?” said Adam. “What do you think, Mr. Massey? I ell 
me the truth.” 


464 


ADAM BEDE 


“Yes, my lad, yes: the truth is the best thing to tell. It 
must come at last. The doctors’ evidence is heavy on her— 
is heavy. But she’s gone on denying she’s had a, child from 
first to last: these poor silly women-things—they’ve not the 
5 sense to know it’s no use denying what’s proved. It’ll make 
against her with the jury, I doubt, her being so obstinate: 
they may be less for recommending her to mercy, if the 
verdict’s against her. But Mr. Irwine ’ull leave no stone un¬ 
turned with the judge—you may rely upon that, Adam.’’ 

10 “ Is there nobody to stand by her, and seem to care for her 

in the court?” said Adam. 

“There’s the chaplain o’ the jail sits near her, but he’s a 
sharp °ferrety-faced man—another sort o’ flesh and blood to 
Mr. Irwine. They say the jail chaplains are mostly the fag- 
15 end o’ the clergy.” 

“There’s one man as ought to be there,” said Adam, bit¬ 
terly. Presently he drew himself up, and looked fixedly out 
of the window, apparently turning over some new idea in his 
mind. 

20 “Mr. Massey,” he said at last, pushing the hair off his fore¬ 
head, “ I’ll go back with you. I’ll go into court. It’s cowardly 
of me to keep away. I’ll stand by her—I’ll own her—for all 
she’s been deceitful. They oughtn’t to cast her off—her own 
flesh and blood. We hand folks over to God’s mercy, and 
25 show none ourselves. I used to be hard sometimes: I’ll never 
be hard again. I’ll go, Mr. Massey—I’ll go with you.” 

There was a decision in Adam’s manner which would have 
prevented Bartle from opposing him, even if he had wished 
to do so. He only said— 

30 “Take a bit, then, and another sup, Adam, for the love of 
me. See, I must stop and eat a morsel. Now, you take some.” 

Nerved by an active resolution, Adam took a morsel of 
bread, and drank some wine. He was haggard and unshaven, 
as he had been yesterday, but he stood upright again, and 
35 looked more like the Adam Bede of former days. 


CHAPTER XLIII 


THE VERDICT 

The place fitted up that day as a court of justice was a 
grand old hall, now destroyed by fire. The mid-day light 
that fell on the close pavement of human heads, was shed 
through a line of high pointed windows, variegated with the 
mellow tints of old painted glass. Grim dusty armour hung 5 
in high relief in front of the dark oaken gallery at the farther 
end; and under the broad arch of the great mullioned window 
opposite was spread a curtain of old tapestry, covered with 
dim melancholy figures, like a dozing indistinct dream of the 
past. It was a place that through the rest of the year was io 
haunted with the shadowy memories of old kings and queens, 
unhappy, discrowned, imprisoned; but to-day all those shad¬ 
ows had fled, and not a soul in the vast hall felt the presence 
of any but a living sorrow, which was quivering in warm 
hearts. ' *s 

But that sorrow seemed to have made itself feebly felt 
hitherto, now when Adam Bede’s tall figure was suddenly 
seen, being ushered to the side of the prisoner’s dock. In 
the broad sunlight of the great hall, among the sleek shaven 
faces of other men, the marks of suffering in his face were 20 
startling even to Mr. Irwine, who had last seen him in the 
dim light of his small room; and the neighbours from Hayslope 
who were present, and who told Hetty Sorrel’s story by their 
firesides in their old age, never forgot to say how it moved 
them when Adam Bede, poor fellow, taller by the head than 25 
most of the people round him, came into court, and took 
his place by her side. 

But Hetty did not see him. She was standing in the same 
position Bartle Massey had described, her hands crossed over 

4^5 


ADAM BEDE 


466 

each other, and her eyes fixed on them. Adam had not dared 
to look at her in the first moments, but at last, when the atten¬ 
tion of the court was withdrawn by the proceedings, he 
turned his face towards her with a resolution not to shrink, 
s Why did they say she was so changed? In the corpse we 
love, it is the likeness we see—it is the likeness, which makes 
itself felt the more keenly because something else was and 
is not. There they were—the sweet face and neck, with the 
dark tendrils of hair, the long dark lashes, the rounded cheek 
10 and the pouting lips: pale and thin yes but like Hetty, 
and only Hetty. Others thought she looked as if some demon 
had cast a blighting glance upon her, withered up the woman’s 
soul in her, and left only a hard despairing obstinacy. But the 
mother’s yearning, that completest type of the life in another 
is life which is the essence of real human love, feels the presence 
of the cherished child even in the debased, degraded man; and 
to Adam, this pale, hard-looking culprit, was the Hetty who 
had smiled at him in the garden under the apple-tree boughs— 
she was that Hetty’s corpse, which he had trembled to look 
20 at the first time, and then was unwilling to turn away his 

eyes from. . 

But presently he heard something that compelled him to 
listen, and made the sense of sight less absorbing. A woman 
was in the witness-box, a middle-aged woman, who spoke in 
25 a firm distinct voice. She said— 

“My name is Sarah Stone. I am a widow, and keep a 
small shop licensed to sell tobacco, snuff, and tea, in Church 
Lane, Stoniton. The prisoner at the bar is the same young 
woman who came, looking ill and tired, with a basket on her 
30 arm, and asked for a lodging at my house on Saturday eve¬ 
ning, the 27th of February. She had taken the house for a 
public, because there was a figure against the door. And when 
I said I didn’t take in lodgers, the prisoner began to cry, and 
said she was too tired to go anywhere else, and she only 
35 wanted a bed for one night. And her prettiness, and her con¬ 
dition, and something respectable about her clothes and looks, 
and the trouble she seemed to be in, made me as I couldn’t 


THE VERDICT 


467 

find in my heart to send her away at once. I asked her to sit 
down, and gave her some tea, and asked her where she was 
going, and where her friends were. She said she was going 
home to her friends: they were farming folks a good way off, 
and she’d had a long journey that had cost her more money 5 
than she expected, so as she’d hardly any money left in her 
pocket, and was afraid of going where it would cost her much. 
She had been obliged to sell most of the things out of her 
basket; but she’d thankfully give a shilling for a bed. I saw 
no reason why I shouldn’t take the young woman in for the 10 
night. I had only one room, but there were two beds in it, 
and I told her she might stay with me. I thought she’d been 
led wrong, and got into trouble, but if she was going to her 
friends, it would be a good work to keep her out of further 
harm.” is 

The witness then stated that in the night a child was born, 
and she identified the baby-clothes then shown to her as 
those in which she had herself dressed the child. 

“Those are the clothes. I made them myself, and had 
kept them by me ever since my last child was born. I took 2 o 
a deal of trouble both for the child and the mother. I couldn’t 
help taking to the little thing and being anxious about it. 

I didn’t send for a doctor, for there seemed no need. I told 
the mother in the day-time she must tell me the name of her 
friends, and where they lived, and let me write to them. She 25 
said, by-and-by she would write herself, but not to-day. She 
would have no nay, but she would get up and be dressed, in 
spite of everything I could say. She said she felt quite strong 
enough; and it was wonderful what spirit she showed. But I 
wasn’t quite easy what I should do about her, and towards 30 
evening I made up my mind I’d go, after Meeting was over, 
and speak to our minister about it. I left the house about 
half-past eight o’clock. I didn’t go out at the shop door, but 
at the back door, which opens into a narrow alley. I’ve only 
got the ground-floor of the house, and the kitchen and bed- 35 
room both look into the alley. I left the prisoner sitting up 
by the fire in the kitchen with the baby on her lap, She hadn’t 


ADAM BEDE 


468 

cried or seemed low at all, as she did the night before. I 
thought she had a strange look with her eyes, and she got ajbit 
flushed towards evening. I was afraid of the fever, and I 
thought I’d call and ask an acquaintance of mine, an experi- 
5 enced woman, to come back with me when I went out. It 
was a very dark night. I didn’t fasten the door behind me: 
there was no lock: it was a latch with a bolt inside, and when 
there was nobody in the house I always went out at the shop 
door. But I thought there was no danger in leaving it un- 
10 fastened that little while. I was longer than I meant to be, 
for I had to wait for the woman that came back with me. It 
was an hour and a half before we got back, and when we went 
in, the candle was standing burning just as I left it, but the 
prisoner and the baby were both gone. She’d taken her cloak 
15 and bonnet, but she’d left the basket and the things in it. 
... I was dreadful frightened, and angry with her for 
going. I didn’t go to give information, because I’d no thought 
she meant to do any harm, and I knew she had money in her 
pocket to buy her food and lodging. I didn’t like to set the 
20 constable after her, for she’d a right to go from me if she 
liked.” 

The effect of this evidence on Adam was electrical; it gave 
him new force. Hetty could not be guilty of the crime—her 
heart must have clung to her baby—else why should she have 
25 taken it with her? She might have left it behind. The little 
creature had died naturally, and then she had hidden it: 
babies were so liable to death—and there might be the 
strongest suspicions without any proof of guilt. His mind 
was so occupied with imaginary arguments against such sus- 
30 picions, that he could not listen to the cross-examination by 
Hetty’s counsel, who tried, without result, to elicit evidence 
that the prisoner had shown some movements of maternal 
affection towards the child. The whole time this witness was 
being examined, Hetty had stood as motionless as before: no 
35 word seemed to arrest her ear. But the sound of the next wit¬ 
ness’s voice touched a chord that was still sensitive; she gave 
a start and a frightened look towards him, but immediately 


THE VERDICT 469 

turned away her head and looked down at her hands as before. 
This witness was a man, a rough peasant. He said— 

“My name is John Olding. I am a labourer, and live at 
Tedd’s Hole, two miles out of Stoniton. A week last Monday, 
towards one o’clock in the afternoon, I was going towards 5 
Hetton Coppice, and about a quarter of a mile from the cop¬ 
pice I saw the prisoner, in a red cloak, sitting under a bit of 
a haystack not far off the stile. She got up when she saw me, 
and seemed as if she’d be walking on the other way. It was a 
regular road through the fields, and nothing very uncommon 10 
to see a young woman there, but I took notice of her because 
she looked white and scared. I should have thought she was 
a beggar-woman, only for her good clothes. I thought she 
looked a bit crazy, but it was no business of mine. I stood 
and looked back after her, but she went right on while she was 15 
in sight. I had to go to the other side of the coppice to look 
after some stakes. There’s a road right through it, and bits of 
openings here and there, where the trees have been cut down, 
and some of ’em not carried away. I didn’t go straight along 
the road, but turned off towards the middle, and took a shorter 20 
way towards the spot I wanted to get to. I hadn’t got far out 
of the road into one of the open places, before I heard a 
strange cry. I thought it didn’t come from any animal I knew, 
but I wasn’t for stopping to look about just then. But it went 
on, and seemed so strange to me in that place, I couldn’t help 25 
stopping to look. I began to think I might make some money 
of it, if it was a new thing. But I had hard work to tell which 
way it came from, and for a good while I kept looking up at 
the boughs. And then I thought it came from the ground; 
and there was a lot of timber-choppings lying about, and 30 
loose pieces of turf, and a trunk or two. And I looked about 
among them, but could find nothing; and at last the cry 
stopped. So I was for giving it up, and I went on about my 
business. But when I came back the same way pretty nigh an 
hour after, I couldn’t help laying down my stakes to have 35 
another look. And just as I was stooping and laying down 
the stakes, I saw something odd and round and whitish lying 


470 


ADAM BEDE 


on the ground under a nut-bush by the side of me. And I 
stooped down on hands and knees to pick it up. And I saw 
it was a little baby’s hand.” 

At these words a thrill ran through the court. Hetty was 
s visibly trembling: now, for the first time, she seemed to be 
listening to what a witness said. 

“There was a lot of timber-choppings put together just 
where the ground went hollow, like, under the bush, and the 
hand came out from among them. But there was a hole left 
io in one place, and I could see down it, and see the child s head; 
and I made haste and did away the turf and the choppings, 
and took out the child. It had got comfortable clothes on, 
but its body was cold, and I thought it must be dead. I made 
haste back with it out of the wood, and took it home to my 
is wife. She said it was dead, and I’d better take it to the parish 
and tell the constable. And I said, Til lay my life it’s that 
young woman’s child as I met going to the coppice.’ But she 
seemed to be gone clean out of sight. And I took the child 
on to Hetton parish and told the constable, and we went on 
20 to Justice Hardy. And then we went looking after the young 
woman till dark at night, and we went and gave information 
at Stoniton, as they might stop her. And the next morning, 
another constable came to me, to go with him to the spot where 
I found the child. And when we got there, there was the 
2s prisoner a-sitting against the bush where I found the child; 
and she cried out when she saw us, but she never offered to 
move. She’d got a big piece of bread on her lap.” 

Adam had given a faint groan of despair while this witness 
was‘ u J speaking. He had hidden his face on his arm, which 
30 rested on the boarding in front of him. It was the supreme 
moment of his suffering: Hetty was guilty: and he was silently 
calling to God for help. He heard no more of the evidence, 
and was unconscious when the case for the prosecution had 
closed—unconscious that Mr. Irwine was in the witness-box, 
35 telling of Hetty’s unblemished character in her own parish, 
and of the virtuous habits in which she had been brought up. 
This testimony could have no influence on the verdict, but it 




THE VERDICT 


471 


was given as part of that plea for mercy which her own coun¬ 
sel would have made if he had been allowed to speak for her— 
a favour not granted to criminals in those stern times. 

At last Adam lifted up his head, for there was a general 
movement round him. The judge had addressed the jury, 5 
and they were retiring. The decisive moment was not tar 
off Adam felt a shuddering horror that would not let him 
look at Hetty, but she had long relapsed into her blank hard 
indifference. All eyes were strained to look at her, but she 
stood like a statue of dull despair. . 10 

There was a mingled rustling, whispering, and low buzzing 
throughout the court during this interval. The desire to listen 
was suspended, and every one had some feeling or opinion to 
express in under-tones. Adam sat looking blankly before him, 
but he did not see the objects that were right in front of his i S 
eyes—the counsel and attorneys talking with an air of cool 
business, and Mr. Irwine in low earnest conversation with the 
judge* did not see Mr. Irwine sit down again in agitation, and 
shake his head mournfully when somebody whispered to him. 
The inward action was too intense for Adam to take in out- 20 
ward objects until some strong sensation roused him. 

It was not very long, hardly more than a quarter of an 
hour, before the knock which told that the jury had come to 
their decision, fell as a signal for silence on every ear. It is 
sublime—that sudden pause of a great multitude, which tells 25 
that one soul moves in them all. Deeper and deeper the 
silence seemed to become, like the deepening night, while 
the jurymen’s names were called over, and the prisoner^was 
made to hold up her hand, and the jury were asked for their 
verdict. „ 

It G was Ae verdict every one expected, but there was a sigh 
of disappointment from some hearts, that it was followed by 
no recommendation to mercy. Still the sympathy of the 
court was not with the prisoner: the unnaturalness of her35 
crime stood out the more harshly by the side of her hard im¬ 
movability and obstinate silence. Even the verdict, to distant 


472 ADAM BEDE 

eyes, had not appeared to move her; but those who were near 
saw her trembling. 

The stillness was less intense until the judge put on his 
black cap, and the chaplain in his canonicals was observed 
S behind him. Then it deepened again, before the crier had had 
time to command silence. If any sound were heard, it must 
have been the sound of beating hearts. The judge spoke— 

“ Hester Sorrel/’ . . . 

The blood rushed to Hetty’s face, and then fled back again, 
io as she looked up at the judge, and kept her wide-open eyes 
fixed on him, as if fascinated by fear. Adam had not yet 
turned towards her: there was a deep horror, like a great gulf, 
between them. But at the words—‘‘and then to be hanged 
by the neck till you be dead,” a piercing shriek rang through 
15 the hall. It was Hetty’s shriek. Adam started to his feet 
and stretched out his arms towards her; but the arms could 
not reach her: she had fallen down in a fainting-fit, and was 
carried out of court. 


CHAPTER XLIV 
Arthur’s return 

When Arthur Donnithorne landed at Liverpool, and read 
the letter from his aunt Lydia, briefly announcing his grand¬ 
father’s death, his first feeling was, ‘‘Poor grandfather! I 
wish I could have got to him to be with him when he died. 

He might have felt or wished something at the last that I 5 
shall never know now. It was a lonely death. 

It is impossible to say that his grief was deeper than that. 
Pity and softened memory took place of the old antagonism, 
and in his busy thoughts about the future, as the chaise 
carried him rapidly along towards the home where he was 10 
now to be master, there was a continually recurring effort to 
remember anything by which he could show a regard for his 
grandfather’s wishes, without counteracting his own cher¬ 
ished aims for the good of the tenants and the estate. But it 
is not in human nature—only in human pretence—for a young I5 
man like Arthur, with a fine constitution and fine spirits, 
thinking well of himself, believing that others think well of 
him, and having a very ardent intention to give them more 
and more reason for that good opinion,—it is not possible for 
such a young man, just coming into a splendid estate through 20 
the death of a very old man whom he was not fond of, to feel 
anything very different from exultant joy. Now his real life 
was beginning; now he would have room and opportunity for 
action, and he would use them. He would show the Loam- 
shire people what a fine country gentleman was; he would not 25 
exchange that career for any other under the sun He felt 
himself riding over the hills in the breezy autumn days, look¬ 
ing after favourite plans of drainage and enclosure; then ad¬ 
mired on sombre mornings as the best rider on the best horse 

473 


ADAM BEDE 


474 

in the hunt; spoken well of on market-days as a first-rate 
landlord; by-and-by making speeches at election dinners, and 
showing a wonderful knowledge of agriculture; the patron of 
new ploughs and drills, the severe upbraider of negligent land- 
s owners, and withal a jolly fellow that everybody must like,— 
happy faces greeting him everywhere on his own estate, and 
the neighbouring families on the best terms with him. The 
Irwines should dine with him every week, and have their own 
carriage to come in, for in some very delicate way that Arthur 
io would devise, the lay-impropriator of the Hayslope tithes 
would insist on paying a couple of hundreds more to the Vicar; 
and his aunt should be as comfortable as possible, and go on 
living at the Chase, if she liked, in spite of her old-maidish 
ways,—at least until he was married; and that event lay in 
is the indistinct background, for Arthur had not yet seen the 
woman who would play the lady-wife to the first-rate country 
gentleman. 

These were Arthur’s chief thoughts, so far as a man’s 
thoughts through hours of travelling can be compressed into 
20 a few sentences, which are only like the list of names telling 
you what are the scenes in a long, long panorama, full of 
colour, of detail, and of life. The happy faces Arthur saw 
greeting him were not pale abstractions, but real ruddy faces, 
long familiar to him: Martin Poyser was there—the whole 
25 Poyser family. 

What—Hetty? 

Yes; for Arthur was at ease about Hetty: not quite at ease 
about the past, for a certain burning of the ears would come 
whenever he thought of the scenes with Adam last August,— 
30 but at ease about her present lot. Mr. Irwine, who had been 
a regular correspondent, telling him all the news about the 
old places and people, had sent him word nearly three months 
ago that Adam Bede was not to marry Mary Burge, as he had 
throught, but pretty Hetty Sorrel. Martin Poyser and Adam 
35 himself had both told Mr. Irwine all about it;—that Adam 
had been deeply in love with Hetty these two years, and that 
now it was agreed they were to be married in March. That 


ARTHUR’S RETURN 


475 


stalwart rogue Adam was more susceptible than the Rector 
had thought; it was really quite an idyllic love affair; and if 
it had not been too long to tell in a letter, he would have 
liked to describe to Arthur the blushing looks and the simple 
strong words with which the fine honest fellow told his secret. 5 
He knew Arthur would like to hear that Adam had this sort 
of happiness in prospect. . 

Yes, indeed! Arthur felt there was not air enough in the 
room to satisfy his renovated life, when he had read that pas¬ 
sage in the letter. He threw up the windows, he rushed out 10 
of doors into the December air, and greeted every one who 
spoke to him with an eager gaiety, as if there had been news 
of a fresh °Nelson victory. For the first time that day since 
he had come to Windsor, he was in true boyish spirits: the 
load that had been pressing upon him was gone; the haunting 15 
fear had vanished. He thought he could conquer his bitter¬ 
ness towards Adam now—could offer him his hand, aqd ask 
to be his friend again, in spite of that painful memory which 
would still make his ears burn. He had been knocked down, 
and he had been forced to tell a lie: such things make a scar, 2 o 
do what we will. But if Adam were the same again as in the 
old days, Arthur wished to be the same too, and to have Adam 
mixed up with his business and his future, as he had always 
desired before that accursed meeting in August Nay, he 
would do a great deal more for Adam than he should otherwise 25 
have done, when he came into the estate; Hetty s husband 
had a special claim on him—Hetty herself should feel that 
any pain she had suffered through Arthur m the past, was 
compensated to her a hundredfold. For really she could not 
have felt much, since she had so soon made up her mind to 3 o 


You perceive clearly what sort of picture Adam and Hetty 
made in the panorama of Arthur’s thoughts on his journey 
homeward. It was March now; they were soon to be married: 
perhaps they were already married. And now it was actually 35 
in his power to do a great deal for them. Sweet-sweet little 
Hetty! The little puss hadn’t cared for him hall as much as 


ADAM BEDE 


476 

he cared for her; for he was a great fool about her still—was 
almost afraid of seeing her—indeed, had not cared much to 
look at any other woman since he parted from her. That little 
figure coming towards him in the Grove, those dark-fringed 
s childish eyes, the lovely lips put up to kiss him—that picture 
had got no fainter with the lapse of months. And she would 
look just the same. It was impossible to think how he could 
meet her: he should certainly tremble. Strange, how long 
this sort of influence lasts; for he was certainly not in love with 
10 Hetty now: he had been earnestly desiring, for months, that 
she should marry Adam, and there was nothing that con¬ 
tributed more to his happiness in these moments than the 
thought of their marriage. It was the exaggerating effect of 
imagination that made his heart still beat a little more quickly 
15 at the thought of her. When he saw the little thing again as 
she was really was, as Adam’s wife, at work quite prosaically 
in her new home, he should perhaps wonder at the possibility 
of his past feelings. Thank heaven it had turned out so well! 
He should have plenty of affairs and interest to fill his life 
20 now, and not be in danger of playing the fool again. 

Pleasant the crack of the postboy’s whip! Pleasant the 
sense of being hurried along in swift ease through English 
scenes, so like those round his own home, only not quite so 
charming. Here was a market-town—very much like Tred- 
25 dleston—where the arms of the neighbouring lord of the manor 
were borne on the sign of the principal inn: then mere fields 
and hedges, their vicinity to a market-town carrying an agree¬ 
able suggestion of high rent, till the land began to assume a 
trimmer look, the woods were more frequent, and at length 
30 a white or red mansion looked down from a moderate emi¬ 
nence, or allowed him to be aware of its parapet and chimneys 
among the dense-looking masses of oaks and elms—masses 
reddened now with early buds. And close at hand came the 
village: the small church, with its red-tiled roof, looking hum- 
35 ble even among the faded half-timbered houses; the old green 
grave-stones with nettles round them; nothing fresh and 
bright but the children, opening round eyes at the swift post- 


ARTHUR’S RETURN 


477 


chaise; nothing noisy and busy but the gaping curs of mysteri¬ 
ous pedigree. What a much prettier village Hayslope was! 
And it should not be neglected like this place: vigorous repairs 
should go on everywhere among farm-buildings and cottages, 
and travellers in post-chaises, coming along the Rosseter 5 
road, should do nothing but admire as they went. And Adam 
Bede should superintend all the repairs, for he had a share in 
Burge’s business now, and, if he liked, Arthur would put some 
money into the concern, and buy the old man out in another 
year or two. That was an ugly fault in Arthur’s life, that 10 
affair last summer; but the future should make amends. Many 
men would have retained a feeling of vindictiveness towards 
Adam; but he would not—he would resolutely overcome all 
littleness of that kind, for he had certainly been very much 
in the wrong; and though Adam had been harsh and violent, 15 
and had thrust on him a painful dilemma, the poor fellow was 
in love, and had real provocation. No; Arthur had not an 
evil feeling in his mind towards any human being: he was 
happy, and would make every one else happy that came within 

his reach. , .... 20 

And here was dear old Hayslope at last, sleeping, on the hill, 
like a quiet old place as it was, in the late afternoon sunlight; 
and opposite to it the great shoulders of the Binton Hills, 
below them the purplish blackness of the hanging woods, and 
at last the pale front of the Abbey, looking out from among the 25 
oaks of the Chase, as if anxious for the heir’s return. Boor 
grandfather! and he lies dead there. He was a young fellow 
once, coming into the estate, and making his plans, bo the 
world goes round! Aunt Lydia must feel very desolate, poor 
thing; but she shall be indulged as much as she indulges her 30 

^ The wheels of Arthur’s chaise had been anxiously listened 
for at the Chase, for to-day was Friday, and the funeral had 
already been deferred two days. Before it drew up on the 
gravel of the courtyard, all the servants in the house were 35 
assembled to receive him with a grave, decent welcome, be¬ 
fitting a house of death. A month ago, perhaps, it would have 


ADAM BEDE 


478 

been difficult for them to have maintained a suitable sadness 
in their faces, when Mr. Arthur was come to take possession; 
but the hearts of the head-servants were heavy that day for 
another cause than the death of the old Squire, and more than 
5 one of them was longing to be twenty miles away, as Mr. 
Craig was, knowing what was to become of Hetty Sorrel— 
pretty Hetty Sorrel—whom they used to see every week. 
They had the partisanship of household servants who like 
their places, and were not inclined to go the full length of the 
10 severe indignation felt against him by the farming tenants, 
but rather to make excuses for him; nevertheless, the upper 
servants, who had been on terms of neighbourly intercourse 
with the Poysers for many years, could not help feeling that 
the longed-for event of the young Squire’s coming into the es- 
is tate had been robbed of all its pleasantness. 

To Arthur it was nothing surprising that the servants 
looked grave and sad: he himself was very much touched on 
seeing them all again, and feeling that he was in a new rela¬ 
tion to them. It was that sort of pathetic emotion which has 
20 more pleasure than pain in it—which is perhaps one of the 
most delicious of all states to a good-natured man, conscious 
of the power to satisfy his good-nature. His heart swelled 
agreeably as he said— 

“Well, Mills, how is my aunt?” 

25 But now Mr. Bygate, the lawyer, who had been in the house 
ever since the death, came forward to give deferential greet¬ 
ings and answer all questions, and Arthur walked with him 
towards the library, where his aunt Lydia was expecting him. 
Aunt Lydia was the only person in the house who knew noth- 
3oing about Hetty; her sorrow as a maiden daughter was un¬ 
mixed with any other thoughts than those of anxiety about 
funeral arrangements and her own future lot; and, after the 
manner of women, she mourned for the father who had made 
her life important, all the more because she had a secret sense 
35 that there was little mourning for him in other hearts. 

But Arthur kissed her tearful face more tenderly than he 
had ever done in his life before. 


ARTHUR’S RETURN 


479 


“Dear aunt,” he said, affectionately, as he held her hand, 

“your loss is the greatest of all, but you must tell me how 
to try and make it up to you all the rest of your life.” 

“It was so sudden and so dreadful, Arthur,” poor Miss 
Lydia began, pouring out her little plaints; and Arthur sat 5 
down to listen with impatient patience. When a pause came, 
he said— 

“Now, aunt, I’ll leave you for a quarter of an hour just 
to go to my own room, and then I shall come and give full 
attention to everything.” 10 

“My room is all ready for me, I suppose, Mills?” he said 
to the butler, who seemed to be lingering uneasily about the 
entrance-hall. 

“Yes, sir, and there are letters for you; they are all laid 
on the writing-table in your dressing-room.” 

On entering the small anteroom which was called a-dress¬ 
ing-room, but which Arthur really used only to lounge and 
write in, he just cast his eyes on the writing-table, and saw 
that there were several letters and packets lying there; but he 
was in the uncomfortable dusty condition of a man who has 20 
had a long hurried journey, and he must really refresh himself 
by attending to his toilette a little, before he read his letters. 
Pym was there, making everything ready for him; and soon, 
with a delightful freshness about him, as if he were prepared 
to begin a new day, he went back into his dressing-room to 25 
open his letters. The level rays of the low afternoon sun en¬ 
tered directly at the window, and as Arthur seated himself in 
his velvet chair with their pleasant warmth upon him, he was 
conscious of that quiet wellbeing which perhaps you and I 
have felt on a sunny afternoon, when, in our brightest youth 30 
and health, life has opened a new vista for us, and long to¬ 
morrows of activity have stretched before us like a lovely plain 
which there was no need for hurrying to look at, because it 
was all our own. 

The top letter was placed with its address upwards: it was 35 
in Mr. Irwine’s handwriting, Arthur saw at once; and below 
the address was written, “To be delivered as soon as he 


480 


ADAM BEDE 


arrives.” Nothing could have been less surprising to him 
than a letter from Mr. Irwine at that moment: of course there 
was something he wished Arthur to know earlier than it was 
possible for them to see each other. At such a time as that 
s it was quite natural that Irwine should have something press¬ 
ing to say. Arthur broke the seal with an agreeable anticipa¬ 
tion of soon seeing the writer. 

“/ send this letter to meet you on your arrival , Arthur , because 
I may then be at Stoniton , whither I am called by the most pain- 
xoful duty it has ever been given me to perform; and it is right that 
you should know what I have to tell you without delay. 

“ I will not attempt to add by one word of reproach to the retri¬ 
bution that is now falling on you: any other words that I could 
write at this moment must be weak and unmeaning by the side 
is 0/ those in which I must tell you the simple fact. 

“Hetty Sorrel is in prison , and will be tried on Friday for 
the crime of child-murder.” . . . 

Arthur read no more. He started up from his chair, and 
stood for a single minute with a sense of violent convulsion 
20 in his whole frame, as if the life were going out of him with 
horrible throbs; but the next minute he had rushed out of 
the room, still clutching the letter—he was hurrying along 
the corridor, and down the stairs into the hall. Mills was 
still there, but Arthur did not see him, as he passed like a 
25 hunted man across the hall and out along the gravel. The 
butler hurried out after him as fast as his elderly limbs 
could run: he guessed, he knew, where the young Squire was 
going. 

When Mills got to the stables, a horse was being saddled, 
30 and Arthur was forcing himself to read the remaining words 
of the letter. He thrust it into his pocket as the horse was led 
up to him, and at that moment caught sight of Mills’ anxious 
face in front of him. 

“Tell them I’m gone—gone to Stoniton,” he said in a 
35 muffled tone of agitation—sprang into the saddle, and set off 
at a gallop. 


CHAPTER XLV 

IN THE PRISON 


Near sunset that evening an elderly gentleman was standing 
with his back against the smaller entrance-door of Stomton 
jail, saying a few last words to the departing chaplain. The 
chaplain walked away, but the elderly gentleman stood still, 
looking down on the pavement, and stroking his chin with a 5 
ruminating air, when he was roused by a sweet clear woman s 
voice, saying— 

“Can I get into the prison, if you pleaser 
He turned his head, and looked fixedly at the speaker for a 
few moments without answering. 10 

“I have seen you before,” he said at last. Do you re¬ 
member preaching on the village green at Hayslope in Loam- 

shire?” ,,1 j 

“Yes, sir, surely. °Are you the gentleman that stayed to 

listen on horseback?” . . 5 „ 15 

“Yes. Why do you want to go into the prison: 

“I want to go to Hetty Sorrel, the young woman who has 
been condemned to death—and to stay with her, if I may be 
permitted. Have you power in the prison, sir. 

“Yes; I am a magistrate, and can get admittance for you. 20 
But did you know this criminal, Hetty Sorrel?” 

“Yes, we are kin: my own aunt married her uncle, Martin 
Poyser/ But I was away at Leeds, and didn’t know of this 
great trouble in time to get here before to-day. I entreat you, 
sir, for the love of our heavenly Father, to let me go to her and 25 

stay with her.” , , 

“How did you know she was condemned to death, 11 you 

are only just come from Leeds?” 

“ I have seen my uncle since the trial, sir. He is gone back 
481 


ADAM BEDE 


482 

to his home now, and the poor sinner is forsaken of all. I 
beseech you to get leave for me to be with her. 

“What! have you courage to stay all night in the prison? 
She is very sullen, and will scarcely make answer when she 
5 is spoken to.” f 

“Oh, sir, it may please God to open her heart still. Don t 
let us delay.” 

“Come, then,” said the elderly gentleman, ringing and 
gaining admission; “ I know you have a key to unlock hearts.” 
10 Dinah mechanically took off her bonnet and shawl as soon 
as they were within the prison court, from the habit she had of 
throwing them off when she preached or prayed, or visited the 
sick; and when they entered the jailer’s room, she laid them 
down on a chair unthinkingly. There was no agitation visible 
is in her, but a deep concentrated calmness, as if, even when she 
was speaking, her soul was in prayer reposing on an unseen 
support. 

After speaking to the jailer, the magistrate turned to her 
and said, “The turnkey will take you to the prisoner’s cell, 
20 and leave you there for the night, if you desire it; but you 
can’t have a light during the night—it is contrary to rules. 
My name is Colonel Townley: if I can help you in anything, 
ask the jailer for my address, and come to me. I take some 
interest in this Hetty Sorrel, for the sake of that fine fellow, 
25 Adam Bede: I happened to see him at Hayslope the same eve¬ 
ning I heard you preach, and recognized him in court to-day, 
ill as he looked.” 

“Ah, sir, can you tell me anything about him? Can you 
tell me where he lodges? For my poor uncle was too much 
30 weighed down with trouble to remember.” 

“Close by here. I inquired all about him of Mr. Irwine. 
He lodges over a tinman’s shop, in the street on the right hand 
as you entered the prison. There is an old schoolmaster with 
him. Now, good-bye: I wish you success.” 

35 “ Farewell, sir. I am grateful to you.” 

As Dinah crossed the prison court with the turnkey, the 
solemn evening light seemed to make the walls higher than 


IN THE PRISON 


483 


they were by day, and the sweet pale face in the cap was more 
than ever like a white flower on this background of gloom. 
The turnkey looked askance at her all the while, but never 
spoke: he somehow felt that the sound of his own rude voice 
would be grating just then. He struck a light as they entered 5 
the dark corridor leading to the condemned cell, and then 
said in his most civil tone, “It’ll be pretty nigh dark in 
the cell a’ready; but I can stop with my light a bit, if you 
like.” 

“Nay, friend, thank you,” said Dinah. “I wish to go m 10 
alone.” 

“As you like,” said the jailer, turning the harsh key m the 
lock, and opening the door wide enough to admit Dinah. 

A jet of light from his lantern fell on the opposite corner 
of the cell, where Hetty was sitting on her straw pallet with 15 
her face buried in her knees. It seemed as if she were asleep, 
and yet the grating of the lock would have been likely to 
waken her. ... 

The door closed again, and the only light in the cell was 
that of the evening sky, through the small high grating— 20 
enough to discern human faces by. Dinah stood still for a 
minute, hesitating to speak, because Hetty might be asleep; 
and looking at the motionless heap with a yearning heart. 
Then she said, softly— 

“ Hetty 1 ” , 23 

There was a slight movement perceptible in Hetty’s frame 
.— a start such as might have been produced by a feeble elec¬ 
trical shock; but she did not look up. Dinah spoke again, m 
a tone made stronger by irrepressible emotion— 

“Hetty . . . it’s Dinah.” 30 

Again there was a slight, startled movement through 
Hetty’s frame, and without uncovering her face, she raised 
her head a little, as if listening. 

“Hetty . . . Dinah is come to you. 

After a moment’s pause, Hetty lifted her head slowly and 35 
timidly from her knees, and raised her eyes. The two pale 
faces were looking at each other: one with a wild hard despair 


ADAM BEDE 


484 

in it, the other full of sad, yearning love. Dinah uncon¬ 
sciously opened her arms and stretched them out. 

“Don’t you know me, Hetty? Don’t you remember 
Dinah? Did you think I wouldn’t come to you in trouble?” 
s Hetty kept her eyes fixed on Dinah’s face,—at first like an 
animal that gazes, and gazes, and keeps aloof. 

“I’m come to be with you, Hetty—not to leave you—to 
.stay with you—to be your sister to the last.” 

Slowly, while Dinah was speaking, Hetty rose, took a step 
xo forward, and was clasped in Dinah’s arms. 

They stood so a long while, for neither of them felt the 
impulse to move apart again. Hetty, without any distinct 
thought of it, hung on this something that was come to clasp 
her now, while she was sinking helpless in a dark gulf; and 
is Dinah felt a deep joy in the first sign that her love was wel¬ 
comed by the wretched lost one. The light got fainter as 
they stood, and when at last they sat down on the straw 
pallet together, their faces had become indistinct. 

Not a word was spoken. Dinah waited, hoping for a 
20 spontaneous word from Hetty; but she sat in the same dull 
despair, only clutching the hand that held hers, and leaning 
her cheek against Dinah’s. It was the human contact she 
clung to, but she was not the less sinking into the dark gulf. 

Dinah began to doubt whether Hetty was conscious who it 
25 was that sat beside her. She thought suffering and fear 
might have driven the poor sinner out of her mind. But it was 
borne in upon her, as she afterwards said, that she must not 
hurry God’s work: we are over-hasty to speak—as if God did 
not manifest himself by our silent feeling, and make his love 
30 felt through ours. She did not know how long they sat in 
that way, but it got darker and darker, till there was only a 
pale patch of light on the opposite wall: all the rest was dark¬ 
ness. But she felt the Divine presence more and more,—nay, 
as if she herself were a part of it, and it was the Divine pity 
35 that was beating in her heart, and was willing the rescue of 
this helpless one. At last she was prompted to speak, and find 
out how far Hetty was conscious of the present. 


IN THE [PRISON 


48 s 

“Hetty,” she said, gently, “do you know who it is that sits 
by your side?” 

“Yes,” Hetty answered, slowly, “it’s Dinah.” 

“And do you remember the time when we were at the Hall 
Farm together, and that night when I told you to be sure and 5 
think of me as a friend in trouble?” 

“Yes,” said Hetty. Then, after a pause, she added, “But 
you can do nothing for me. You can’t make ’em do anything. 
They’ll hang me o’ Monday—it’s Friday now.” 

As Hetty said the last words, she clung closer to Dinah, 10 
shuddering. 

“No, Hetty, I can’t save you from that death. But isn’t 
the suffering less hard when you have somebody with you, 
that feels for you—that you can speak to, and say what’s in 
your heart? . . . Yes, Hetty: you lean on me: you are 15 

glad to have me with you.” 

“You won’t leave me, Dinah? You’ll keep close to me?” 

“No, Hetty, I won’t leave you. I’ll stay with you to the 
last. . . . But, Hetty, there is some one else in this cell 

besides me, some one close to you?” 20 

Hetty said, in a frightened whisper, “Who?” 

“ Some one who has been with you through all your hours 
of sin and trouble—who has known every thought you have 
had—has seen where you went, where you lay down and rose 
up again, and all the deeds you have tried to hide in darkness. 25 
And on Monday, when I can’t followyou,—when my arms can’t 
reach you,—when death has parted us,—He who is with us now, 
and knows all, will be with you then. It makes no difference 
—whether we live or die, we are in the presence of God.” 

“Oh, Dinah, won’t nobody do anything for me? Will they 30 
hang me for certain? ... I wouldn’t mind if they’d let 
me live.” 

“My poor Hetty, death is very dreadful to you. I know 
it’s dreadful. But if you had a friend to take care of you after 
death—in that other world—some one whose love is greater 35 
than mine—who can do everything? ... If God our 
Father was your friend, and was willing to save you from sin 


4 86 ADAM BEDE 

and suffering, so as you should neither know wicked feelings 
nor pain again? If you could believe he loved you and would 
help you, as you believe I love you and will help you, it 
wouldn’t be so hard to die on Monday, would it?’ 
s “But I can’t know anything about it,” Hetty said, with 
sullen sadness. 

“Because, Hetty, you are shutting up your soul against 
Him, by trying to hide the truth. God s love and mercy can 
overcome all things—our ignorance, and weakness, and all 
jo the burthen of our past wickedness—all things but our wilful 
sin; sin that we cling to, and will not give up. You believe in 
my love and pity for you, Hetty; but if you had not let me 
come near you, if you wouldn’t have looked at me or spoken 
to me, you’d have shut me out from helping you: I couldn t 
15 have made you feel my love; I couldn’t have told you what 1 
felt for you. Don’t shut God’s love out in that way, by cling¬ 
ing to sin. ... He can’t bless you while you have one 
falsehood in your soul; his pardoning mercy can’t reach you 
until you open your heart to him, and say, °‘ I have done this 
20 great wickedness; O God, save me, make me pure from sin. 
While you cling to one sm and will not part with it, it must 
drag you down to misery after death, as it has dragged you 
to misery here in this world, my poor, poor Hetty. It is sin 
that brings dread, and darkness, and despair: there is light and 
25 blessedness for us as soon as we cast it off: God enters our souls 
then, and teaches us, and brings us strength and peace. Cast 
it off now, Hetty—now: confess the wickedness you have done 
—the sin you have been guilty of against your heavenly 
Father. Let us kneel down together, for we are in the pres- 
30 ence of God.” 

Hetty obeyed Dinah’s movement, and sank on her knees. 
They still held each other’s hands, and there was long silence. 
Then Dinah said— ... „ . 

“Hetty, we are before God: He is waiting for you to tell the 

35 Stiil there was silence. At last Hetty spoke, in a tone of 

beseeching— 


IN THE PRISON 4 8 7 

“Dinah . . . help me . . I can’t feel anything 

like you . . . my heart is hard.” 

Dinah held the clinging hand, and all her soul went forth 

m “TesuTjThou present Saviour! Thou hast known the depths s 
of all sorrow: thou hast entered that black darkness where 
God is not, and hast uttered the cry of the forsaken. Come, 
Lord, and gather of the fruits of thy travail and thy pleading: 
stretch forth thy hand, thou who art mighty to save to the 
uttermost, and rescue this lost one. She is clothed round with 10 
thick darkness: the fetters of her sin are upon her, and she 
cannot stir to come to thee: she can only feel her heart is hard, 
and she is helpless. She cries to me, thy weak creature . . . . 
Saviour! it is a blind cry to thee. Hear it! Pierce the dark¬ 
ness ! Look upon her with thy face of love and sorrow, that thou I5 
didst turn on him who denied thee; and melt her hard heart. 

“See, Lord,—I bring her, as °they of old brought the sick 
and helpless, and thou didst heal them: I bear her on my 
arms and carry her before thee Fear and trembling have 
taken hold on her; but she trembles only at the pain and death 2Q 
of the body: breathe upon her thy life-giving Spirit, and put 
a new fear within her-the fear of her sin. Make her dread 
to keep the accursed thing within her soul: make her feel the 
presence of the living God, who beholds all the past, to whom 
the darkness is as noonday; who is waiting now, at th 2S 
Eleventh hour, for her to turn to him, and confess her sin, 
and cry for mercy—now, before the night of death comes, 
and the moment of pardon is for ever fled, like yesterday that 

rCt “ Saviour? it is yet time—time to snatch this poor soul from 3 o 
everlasting darkness. I believe-I believe in thy infinite love. 
What is my love or my pleading? It is quenched m thme. 

I can only clasp her in my weak arms, and urge her with my 
weak pity. Thou—thou wilt breathe on the dead soul, and 
it shall arise from the unanswenng sleep of death. 35 

“Yea, Lord, I see thee, coming through the darkness, com¬ 
ing, like the morning, with healing on thy wings. The marks 


ADAM BEDE 


488 

of thy agony are upon thee—I see, I see thou art able and wil¬ 
ing to save—thou wilt not let her perish for ever. 

“Come, mighty Saviour! let the dead hear thy voice; 
let the eyes of the blind be opened: let her see that God en- 
5 compasses her; let her tremble at nothing but at the sin that 
cuts her off from Him. Melt the hard heart; unseal the closed 
lips: make her cry with her whole soul, °‘Father, I have 
sinned/ ...” 

“Dinah,” Hetty sobbed out, throwing her arms round 
10 Dinah’s neck, “I will speak ... I will tell ... I 
won’t hide it any more.” 

But the tears and sobs were too violent. Dinah raised her 
gently from her knees, and seated her on the pallet again, 
sitting down by her side. It was a long time before the con- 
15 vulsed throat was quiet, and even then they sat some time in 
stillness and darkness, holding each other’s hands. At last 
Hetty whispered— 

“I did do it, Dinah ... I buried it in the wood 
. . . the little baby . . . and it cried ... I 

20 heard it cry . . . ever such a way off . . . all night 

. . . and I went back because it cried.” 

She paused, and then spoke hurriedly in a louder, pleading 
tone. 

“But I thought perhaps it wouldn’t die—there might some- 
25 body find it. I didn’t kill it—I didn’t kill it myself. I put 
it down there and covered it up, and when I came back it was 
gone. ... It was because I was so very miserable, 
Dinah ... I didn’t know where to go . . . and I 

tried to kill myself before, and I couldn’t. Oh, I tried so to 

30 drown myself in the pool, and I couldn’t. I went to Windsor 
—I ran away—did you know? I went to find him, as he 
might take care of me; and he was gone; and then I didn’t 
know what to do. I daredn’t go back home again—I couldn’t 
bear it. I could’nt have bore to look at anybody, for they’d 
35 have scorned me. I thought o’ you sometimes, and thought 
I’d come to you, for I didn’t think you’d be cross with me, 
and cry shame on me: I thought I could tell you. But then 



IN THE PRISON 


489 

the other folks ’ud come to know it at last, and I couldn’t 
bear that. It was partly thinking o’ you made me come to¬ 
ward Stoniton; and, besides, I was so frightened at going 
wandering about till I was a beggar-woman, and had noth¬ 
ing; and sometimes it seemed as if I must go back to the 5 
Farm sooner than that. Oh, it was so dreadful, Dinah. . . 

I was so miserable ... I wished I’d never been born 
into this world. I should never like to go into the green 
fields again—I hated ’em so in my misery.” 

Hetty paused again, as if the sense of the past were too 10 
strong upon her for words. 

“And then I got to Stoniton, and I began to feel frightened 
that night, because I was so near home. And then the little 
baby was born, when I didn’t expect it; and the thought came 
into my mind that I might get rid of it, and go home again. 15 
The thought came all of a sudden, as I was lying in the bed, 
and it got stronger and stronger . . .1 longed so to go 

back again ... I couldn’t bear being so lonely, and 
coming to beg for want. And it gave me strength and resolu¬ 
tion to get up and dress myself. I felt I must do it . . . 120 
didn’t know how ... I thought I’d find a pool, if I 
could, like that other, in the corner of the field, in the dark. 
And when the woman went out, I felt as if I was strong enough 
to do anything ... I thought I should get rid of all my 
misery, and go back home, and never let ’em know why I ran 25 
away. I put on my bonnet and shawl, and went out into the 
dark street, with the baby under my cloak; and I walked fast 
till I got into a street a good way off, and there was a public, 
and I got some warm stuff to drink and some bread. And I 
walked on and on, and I hardly felt the ground I trod on; and 30 
it got lighter, for there came the moon—Oh, Dinah, it 
frightened me when it first looked at me out o’ the clouds—it 
never looked so before; and I turned out of the road into the 
fields, for I was afraid o’ meeting anybody with the moon 
shining on me. And I came to a haystack, where I thought I 35 
could lie down and keep myself warm all night. There was a 
place cut into it, where I could make me a bed; and I lay 


ADAM BEDE 


490 

comfortable, and the baby was warm against me; and I must 
have gone to sleep for a good while, for when I woke it was 
morning, but not very light, and the baby was crying. And 
I saw a wood a little way off ... I thought there d 
s perhaps be a ditch or a pond there . . . and it was so 

early I thought I could hide the child there, and get a long 
way off before folks was up. And then I thought Fd go home 
■—Fd get rides in carts and go home, and tell ’em Fd been to 
try and see for a place, and couldn’t get one. I longed so for 
10 it, Dinah, I longed so to be safe at home. I don’t know how 
I felt about the baby. I seemed to hate it—it was like a heavy 
weight hanging round my neck; and yet its crying went 
through me, and I daredn’t look at its little hands and face. 
But I went on to the wood, and I walked about, but there 
15 was no water” . . . 

Hetty shuddered. She was silent for some moments, and 
when she began again, it was in a whisper. 

“ I came to a place where there was lots of chips and turf, 
and I sat down on the trunk of a tree to think what I should 
20 do. And all of a sudden I saw a hole under the nut-tree, like 
a little grave. And it darted into me like lightning—I’d lay 
the baby there, and cover it with the grass and the chips. I 
couldn’t kill it any other way. And Fd done it in a minute; 
and, oh, it cried so, Dinah—I couldn't cover it quite up—I 
2s thought perhaps somebody ’ud come and take care of it, and 
then it wouldn’t die. And I made haste out of the wood, but 
I could hear it crying all the while; and when I got out into 
the fields, it was as if I was held fast—I couldn’t go away, for 
all I wanted so to go. And I sat against the haystack to 
30 watch if anybody ’ud come: I was very hungry, and Fd only 
a bit of bread left; but I couldn’t go away. And after ever 
such a while—hours and hours—the man came—him in a 
smock-frock, and he looked at me so, I was frightened, and I 
made haste and went on. I thought he was going to the wood, 
35 and would perhaps find the baby. And I went right on, till 
I came to a village, a long way off from the wood; and I was 
very sick, and faint, and hungry. I got something to eat 


IN THE PRISON 


491 


there, and bought a loaf. But I was frightened to stay. I 
heard the baby crying, and thought the other folks heard it 
too,—and I went on. But I was so tired, and it was getting 
towards dark. And at last, by the roadside there was a barn 
—ever such a way off any house—like the barn in °Abbot’s 5 
Close; and I thought I could go in there and hide myself 
among the hay and straw, and nobody ’ud be likely to come. 

I went in, and it was half full o’ trusses of straw, and there was 
some hay, too. And I made myself a bed, ever so far behind, 
where nobody could find me; and I was so tired and weak, I 10 
went to sleep. . . . But oh, the baby’s crying kept wak¬ 

ing me; and I thought that man as looked at me so was come 
and laying hold of me. But I must have slept a long while at 
last, though I didn’t know; for when I got up and went out of 
the barn, I didn’t know whether it was night or morning. 15 
But it was morning, for it kept getting lighter; and I turned 
back the way I’d come. I couldn’t help it, Dinah; it was the 
baby’s crying made me go: and yet I was frightened to death. 

I thought that man in the smock-frock ’ud see me, and know 
I put the baby there. But I went on, for all that: I’d left 20 
off thinking about going home—it had gone out o’ my mind. 

I saw nothing but that place in the wood where I’d buried the 
baby . . . I see it now. O Dinah! shall I allays see it?” 

Hetty clung round Dinah, and shuddered again. The 
silence seemed long before she went on. 25 

“I met nobody, for it was very early, and I got into the 
wood. ... I knew the way to the place . . . the 

place against the nut-tree; and I could hear it crying at every 
step. ... I thought it was alive. ... I don’t know 
whether I was frightened or glad ... I don’t know what 30 
I felt. I only know I was in the wood, and heard the cry. I 
don’t know what I felt till I saw the baby was gone. And 
when I’d put it there, I thought I should like somebody to find 
it, and save it from dying; but when I saw it was gone I was 
struck like a stone, with fear. I never thought o’ stirring, I 35 
felt so weak. I knew I couldn’t run away, and everybody as 
saw me ’ud know about the baby. My heart went like a stone: 


492 


ADAM BEDE 


I couldn’t wish or try for anything; it seemed like as if I 
should stay there for ever, and nothing ’ud ever change. But 
they came and took me away.” 

Hetty was silent, but she shuddered again, as if there was 
s still something behind; and Dinah waited, for her heart was 
so full, that tears must come before words. At last Hetty 
burst out, with a sob— 

“ Dinah, do you think God will take away that crying and 
the place in the wood, now I’ve told everything?” 

:o “Let us pray, poor sinner: let us fall on our knees again, 
and pray to the God of all mercy,” 


CHAPTER XLVI 

THE HOURS OF SUSPENSE 

On Sunday morning, when the church bells in Stoniton 
were ringing for morning service, Bartle Massey re-entered 
Adam’s room, after a short absence, and said— 

“Adam, here’s a visitor wants to see you.” 

Adam was seated with his back towards the door, but he 5 
started up and turned round instantly, with a flushed face 
and an eager look. His face was even thinner and more worn 
than we have seen it before, but he was washed and shaven 
this Sunday morning. 

“Is it any news?” he said. . 10 

“Keep yourself quiet, my lad,” said Bartle; “keep quiet. 
It’s not what you’re thinking of: it’s the young Methodist 
woman come from the prison. She’s at the bottom o the 
stairs, and wants to know if you think well to see her, for she 
has something to say to you about that poor castaway; but is 
she wouldn’t come in without your leave, she said. She 
thought you’d perhaps like to go out and speak to her. These 
preaching women are not so back’ard commonly, Bartle 
muttered to himself. 

“Ask her to come in,” said Adam. 20 

He was standing with his face towards the door, and as 
Dinah entered, lifting up her mild grey eyes towards him, she 
saw at once the great change that had come since the day 
when she had looked up at the tall man in the cottage. There 
was a trembling in her clear voice as she put her hand into 25 

his, and said— . . . „ 

“Be comforted, Adam Bede: the Lord has not forsaken her. 
“Bless you for coming to her,” Adam said.^ Mr. Massey 
brought me word yesterday as you was come.” 

493 


ADAM BEDE 


494 

They could neither of them say any more just yet, but stood 
before each other in silence; and Bartle Massey, too, who had 
put on his spectacles, seemed transfixed, examining Dinah’s 
face. But he recovered himself first, and said, “Sit down, 
s young woman, sit down,” placing the chair for her, and retir¬ 
ing to his old seat on the bed. 

“Thank you, friend; I won’t sit down,” said Dinah, “for 
I must hasten back: she entreated me not to stay long away. 
What I came for, Adam Bede, was to pray you to go and see 
io the poor sinner, and bid her farewell. She desires to ask your 
forgiveness, and it is meet you should see her to-day, rather 
than in the early morning, when the time will be short.” 

Adam stood trembling, and at last sank down on his chair 
again. 

15 “It won’t be,” he said: “it’ll be put off—there’ll perhaps 
come a pardon. Mr. Irwine said there was hope: he said, I 
needn’t quite give it up.” 

“That’s a blessed thought to me,” said Dinah, her eyes 
filling with tears. “ It’s a fearful thing hurrying her soul away 
20 so fast.” 

“But let what will be,” she added, presently, “you will 
surely come, and let her speak the words that are in her heart. 
Although her poor soul is very dark, and discerns little beyond 
the things of the flesh, she is no longer hard: she is contrite— 
25 she has confessed all to me. The pride of her heart has given 
way, and she leans on me for help, and desires to be taught. 
This fills me with trust; for I cannot but think that the breth¬ 
ren sometimes err in measuring the Divine love by the sin¬ 
ner’s knowledge. She is going to write a letter to the friends 
30 at the Hall Farm for me to give them when she is gone; and 
when I told her you were here, she said, ‘I should like to say 
good-bye to Adam, and ask him to forgive me.’ You will 
come, Adam ?—perhaps you will even now come back with me ?” 

“I can’t,” Adam said: “I can’t say good-bye, while there’s 
35 any hope. I’m listening, and listening—I can’t think o’ 
nothing but that. It can’t be as she’ll die that shameful 
death—I can’t bring my mind to it.” 


THE HOURS OF SUSPENSE 


495 


He got up from his chair again, and looked away out of the 
window, while Dinah stood with compassionate patience. In 
a minute or two he turned round and said— 

“ I will come, Dinah . . . to-morrow morning . . . 

if it must be. I may have more strength to bear it, if I know 5 
it must be. Tell her, I forgive her; tell her I will come—at the 
very last.” 

“I will not urge you against the voice of your own heart,” 
said Dinah. “ I must hasten back to her, for it is wonderful 
how she clings now, and was not willing to let me out of her 10 
sight. She used never to make any return to my affection 
before, but now tribulation has opened her heart. Farewell, 
Adam: our heavenly Father comfort you, and strengthen you 
to bear all things.” Dinah put out her hand, and Adam 
pressed it in silence. 15 

Bartle Massey was getting up to lift the stiff latch of the 
door for her, but before he could reach it, she had said, gently, 

“ Farewell, friend,” and was gone, with her light step, down 
the stairs. 

“Well,” said Bartle, taking off his spectacles, and putting 20 
them into his pocket, “if there must be women to make 
trouble in the world, it’s but fair there should be women to be 
comforters under it; and she’s one—she’s one. It’s a pity 
she’s a Methodist; but there’s no getting a woman without 
some foolishness or other.” 25 

Adam never went to bed that night: the excitement of sus¬ 
pense, heightening with every hour that brought him nearer 
the fatal moment, was too great; and in spite of his entreaties, 
in spite of his promises that he would be perfectly quiet, the 
schoolmaster watched too. > f 30 

“What does it matter to me, lad?” Bartle said: “a night’s 
sleep more or less? I shall sleep long enough, by-and-by, 
underground. Let me keep thee company in trouble while I 
Can ‘ 

It was a long and dreary night in that small chamber. 35 
Adam would sometimes get up, and tread backwards and for¬ 
wards along the short space from wall to wall; then he would 


ADAM BEDE 


496 

sit down and hide his face, and no sound would be heard but 
the ticking of the watch on the table, or the falling of a cinder 
from the fire which the schoolmaster carefully tended. Some¬ 
times he would burst out into vehement speech— 

5 “If I could ha’ done anything to save her—if my bearing 
° anything would ha’ done any good . . . but t’ have to 

sit still, and know it, and do nothing . . . it s hard tor 

a man to bear ... and to think o’ what might ha 
been now, if it hadn’t been for Arm. . . . O God, its 

10 the very day we should ha’ been married.” ? 

“Ay, my lad,” said Bartle, tenderly, “it’s heavy—it s 
heavy. But you must remember this: when you thought of 
marrying her, you’d a notion she’d got another sort of a 
nature inside her. You didn’t think she could have got hard- 
15 ened in that little while to do what she s done. 

“I know—I know that,” said Adam. “I thought she was 
loving and tender-hearted, and wouldn’t tell a lie* or act 
deceitful. How could I think any other way? And if he d 
never come near her, and I’d married her, and been loving to 
20 her, and took care of her, she might never ha’ done anything 
bad. What would it ha’ signified—my having a bit o’ trouble 
with her? It ’ud ha’ been nothing to this.” 

“There’s no knowing, my lad—there’s no knowing what 
might have come. The smart’s bad for you to bear now: you 
25 must have time—you must have time. But I’ve that opinion 
of you, that you’ll rise above it all, and be a man again; and 
there may good come out of this that we don’t see.” 

“Good come out of it!” said Adam, passionately. “That 
doesn’t alter th’ evil: her ruin can’t be undone. I hate that 
30 talk o’ people, as if there was a way o’ making amends for 
everything. They’d more need be brought to see as the wrong 
they do can never be altered. When a man’s spoiled his fel- 
low-creatur’s life, he’s no right to comfort himself with think¬ 
ing good may come out of it: somebody else’s good doesn’t 
35 alter her shame and misery. 

“Well, lad, well,” said Bartle, in a gentle tone, strangely 
in contrast with his usual peremptoriness and impatience of 


497 


THE HOURS OF SUSPENSE . 

contradiction, “it’s likely enough I talk foolishness: I’m an 
old fellow, and it’s a good many years since I was in trouble 
myself. It’s easy finding reasons why other folks should be 
patient.” 

“Mr. Massey,” said Adam, penitently, “I’m very hot and s 
hasty. I owe you something different; but you mustn’t take 
it ill of me.” 

“Not I, lad—not I.” 

So the night wore on in agitation, till the chill dawn and 
the growing light brought the tremulous quiet that comes on io 
the brink of despair. There would soon be no more suspense. 

“Let us go to the prison now, Mr. Massey,” said Adam, 
when he saw the hand of his watch at six. “If there’s any 
news come, we shall hear about it.” 

The people were astir already, moving rapidly, in one direc- is 
tion, through the streets. Adam tried not to think where they 
were going, as they hurried past him in that short space be¬ 
tween his lodging and the prison gates. He was thankful 
when the gates shut him in from seeing those eager people. 

No; there was no news come—no pardon—no reprieve. 20 

Adam lingered in the court half an hour before he could 
bring himself to send word to Dinah that he was come. But 
a voice caught his ear: he could not shut out the words. 

“The cart is to set off at half-past seven.” 

It must be said—the last good-bye: there was no help. 25 

In ten minutes from that time, Adam was at the door of the 
cell. Dinah had sent him word that she could not come to 
him, she could not leave Hetty one moment; but Hetty was 
prepared for the meeting. . 

He could not see her when he entered, for agitation dead- 30 
ened his senses, and the dim cell was almost dark to him. He 
stood a moment after the door closed behind him, trembling 
and stupefied. 

But he began to see through the dimness—to see the dark 
eyes lifted up to him once more, but with no smile in them. 35 
O God, how sad they looked! The last time they had met his 
was when he parted from her with his heart full of joyous, 


ADAM BEDE 


498 

hopeful love, and they looked out with a tearful smile from a 
pink, dimpled, childish face. The face was marble now; the 
sweet lips were pallid and half-open, and quivering; the 
dimples were all gone—all but one, that never went; and the 
s eyes—O! the worst of all was the likeness they had to Hetty’s. 
They were Hetty’s eyes looking at him with that mournful 
gaze, as if she had come back to him from the dead to tell him 
of her misery. 

She was clinging close to Dinah; her cheek was against 
10 Dinah’s. It seemed as if her last faint strength and hope lay- 
in that contact; and the pitying love that shone out from Di¬ 
nah’s face looked like a visible pledge of the Invisible Mercy. 

When the sad eyes met—when Hetty and Adam looked at 
each other, she felt the change in him too, and it seemed to 
15 strike her with fresh fear. It was the first time she had seen 
any being whose face seemed to reflect the change in herself: 
Adam was a new image of the dreadful past and the dreadful 
present. She trembled more as she looked at him. 

“Speak to him, Hetty,” Dinah said; “tell him what is in 
20 your heart.” 

Hetty obeyed her, like a little child. 

“Adam . . . I’m very sorry . . . I behaved very 

wrong to you . . . will you forgive me . . . be¬ 

fore I die?” 

25 Adam answered with a half-sob: “Yes, I forgive thee, Het¬ 
ty: I forgave thee long ago.” 

It had seemed to Adam as if his brain would burst with the 
anguish of meeting Hetty’s eyes in the first moments; but 
the sound of her voice uttering these penitent words touched a 
30 chord which had been less strained: there was a sense of relief 
from what was becoming unbearable, and the rare tears came 
—they had never come before, since he had hung on Seth’s 
neck in the beginning of his sorrow. 

Hetty made an involuntary movement towards him; some 
35 of the love that she had once lived in the midst of was come 
near her again. She kept hold of Dinah’s hand, but she went 
up to Adam and said, timidly— 


THE HOURS OF SUSPENSE 


499 

“Will you kiss me again, Adam, for all Fve been so 
wicked?” 

Adam took the blanched wasted hand she put out to him, 
and they gave each other the solemn unspeakable kiss of a 
lifelong parting. s 

“And tell him,” Hetty said, in rather a stronger voice, 
“tell him . . . for there’s nobody else to tell him . . . 

as I went after him and couldn’t find him . . . and I 

hated him and cursed him once . . . but Dinah says, 

I should forgive him . . . and I try ... for else io 

God won’t forgive me.” 

There was a noise at the door of the cell now—the key was 
being turned in the lock, and when the door opened, Adam 
saw indistinctly that there were several faces there: he was 
too agitated to see more—even to see that Mr. Irwine’s face 15 
was one of them. He felt that the last preparations were be¬ 
ginning, and he could stay no longer. Room was silently 
made for him to depart, and he went to his chamber in lone¬ 
liness, leaving Bartle Massey to watch and see the end. 


CHAPTER XLVII 

THE LAST MOMENT 

It was a sight that some people remembered better even 
than their own sorrows—the sight in that grey clear morning, 
when the fatal cart with the two young women in it was descried 
by the waiting watching multitude, cleaving its way towards 
5 the hideous symbol of a deliberately-inflicted sudden death. 

All Stoniton had heard of Dinah Morris, the young Method¬ 
ist woman who had brought the obstinate criminal to confess, 
and there was as much eagerness to see her as to see the 
wretched Hetty. 

io But Dinah was hardly conscious of the multitude. When 
Hetty had caught sight of the vast crowd in the distance, she 
had clutched Dinah convulsively. 

“Close your eyes, Hetty,” Dinah said, “and let us pray 
without ceasing to God.” 

15 And in a low voice, as the cart went slowly along through 
the midst of the gazing crowd, she poured forth her soul with 
the wrestling intensity of a last pleading, for the trembling 
creature that clung to her and clutched her as the only visible 
sign of love and pity. 

20 Dinah did not know that the crowd was silent, gazing at 
her with a sort of awe—she did not even know how near they 
were to the fatal spot, when the cart stopped, and she shrank 
appalled at a loud shout hideous to her ear, like a vast yell 
of demons. Hetty’s shriek mingled with the sound, and they 

25 clasped each other in mutual horror. 

But it was not a shout of execration—not a yell of exultant 
cruelty. 

It was a shout of sudden excitement at the appearance of a 
horseman cleaving the crowd at full gallop. The horse is 

500 


THE LAST MOMENT 5 oi 

hot and distressed, but answers to the desperate spurring; 
the rider looks as if his eyes were glazed by madness, and he 
saw nothing but what was unseen by others. See, he has 
so ^ th j, I ?g ^is h an d he is holding it up as if it were a signal. 

1 he Sheriff knows him: it is Arthur Donnithorne, carrying s 
in his hand a °hard-won release from death. 



CHAPTER XLVIII 


ANOTHER MEETING IN THE WOOD 

The next day, at evening, two men were walking from 
opposite points towards the same scene, drawn thither by a 
common memory. The scene was the Grove by Donnithorne 
Chase: you know who the men were, 
s The old Squire’s funeral had taken place that morning, 
the will had been read, and now in the first breathing-space, 
Arthur Donnithorne had come out for a lonely walk, that he 
might look fixedly at the new future before him, and confirm 
himself in a sad resolution. He thought he could do that best 
io in the Grove. 

Adam, too, had come from Stoniton on Monday evening, 
and to-day he had not left home, except to go to the family 
at the Hall Farm, and tell them everything that Mr. Irwine 
had left untold. He had agreed with the Poysers that he 
is would follow them to their new neighbourhood, wherever 
that might be; for he meant to give up the management of the 
woods, and, as soon as it was practicable, he would wind up 
his business with Jonathan Burge, and settle with his mother 
and Seth in a home within reach of the friends to whom he felt 
20 bound by a mutual sorrow. 

“Seth and me are sure to find work,” he said. “A man 
that’s got our trade at his finger ends is at home everywhere; 
and we must make a new start. My mother won’t stand in 
the way, for she’s told me, since I came home, she’d made up 
25 her mind to being buried in another parish, if I wished it, and 
if I’d be more comfortable elsewhere. It’s wonderful how 
quiet she’s been ever since I came back. It seems as if the 
very greatness o’ the trouble had quieted and calmed her. 
We shall all be better in a new country; though there’s some 

502 


ANOTHER MEETING IN THE WOOD 


503 


I shall be loth to leave behind. But I won’t part from you and 
yours, if I can help it, Mr. Poyser. Trouble’s made us kin.” 

“Ay, lad,” said Martin. “We’ll go out o’ hearing o’ that 
man’s name. But I doubt we shall ne’er go far enough for 
folks not to find out °as we’s got them belonging to us as are 5 
transported o’er the seas, and were like to be hanged. We 
shall have that flyin’ up in our faces, and our children’s after 
us.” 

That was a long visit to the Hall Farm, and drew too 
strongly on Adam’s energies for him to think of seeing others, 10 
or re-entering on his old occupations till the morrow. “ But 
to-morrow,” he said to himself, “I’ll go to work again. I shall 
learn to like it again some time, maybe; and it’s right whether 
I like it or not.” 

This evening was the last he would allow to be absorbed by 15 
sorrow: suspense was gone now, and he must bear the un¬ 
alterable. He was resolved not to see Arthur Donnithorne 
again, if it were possible to avoid him. He had no message to 
deliver from Hetty now, for Hetty had seen Arthur; and Adam 
distrusted himself: he had learned to dread the violence of20 
his own feeling. That word of Mr. Irwine’s — that he must 
remember what he had felt after giving the last blow to Arthur 
in the Grove—had remained with him. 

These thoughts about Arthur, like all thoughts that are 
charged with strong feeling, were continually recurring, and 25 
they always called up the image of the Grove—of that spot 
under the overarching boughs where he had caught sight of the 
two bending figures, and had been possessed by sudden rage. 

“I’ll go and see it again to-night for the last time,” he 
said; “it’ll do me good; it’ll make me feel over again what I 30 
felt when I’d knocked him down. I felt what poor empty 
work it was, as soon as I’d done it, before I began to think he 
might be dead.” 

In this way it happened that Arthur and Adam were walk¬ 
ing towards the same spot at the same time. 35 

Adam had on his working-dress again, now,—for he had 
thrown off the other with a sense of relief as soon as he came 


504 


ADAM BEDE 


home; and if he had had the basket of tools over his shoulder, 
he might have been taken, with his pale wasted face, for the 
spectre of the Adam Bede who entered the Grove on that 
August evening eight months ago. But he had no basket of 
s tools, and he was not walking with the old erectness, looking 
keenly round him; his hands were thrust in his side pockets, 
and his eyes rested chiefly on the ground. He had not long 
entered the Grove, and now he paused before a beech. He 
knew that tree well; it was the boundary mark of his youth— 
io sign, to him, of the time when some of his earliest, strongest 
feelings had left him. He felt sure they would never return. 
And yet, at this moment, there was a stirring of affection at 
the remembrance of that Arthur Donnithorne whom he had 
believed in before he had come up to this beech eight months 
is ago. It was affection for the dead: that Arthur existed no 
longer. 

He was disturbed by the sound of approaching foot-steps, 
but the beech stood at a turning in the road, and he could not 
see who was coming, until the tall slim figure in deep mourn- 
aoing suddenly stood before him at only two yards’ distance. 
They both started, and looked at each other in silence. Often, 
in the last fortnight, Adam had imagined himself as close 
to Arthur as this, assailing him with words that should be as 
harrowing as the voice of remorse, forcing upon him a just 
25 share in the misery he had caused; and often, too, he had told 
himself that such a meeting had better not be. But in ima¬ 
gining the meeting he had always seen Arthur, as he had met 
him on that evening in the Grove, florid, careless, light of 
speech; and the figure before him touched him with the signs 
30 of suffering. Adam knew what suffering was—he could not 
lay a cruel finger on a bruised man. He felt no impulse that 
he needed to resist: silence was more just than reproach. 
Arthur was the first to speak. 

“Adam,” he said, quietly, “it may be a good thing that 
35 we have met here, for I wished to see you. I should have 
asked to see you to-morrow.” 

He paused, but Adam said nothing. 


ANOTHER MEETING IN THE WOOD 505 

“I know it is painful to you to meet me,” Arthur went on, 
“but it is not likely to happen again for years to come.” 

“No, sir,” said Adam, coldly, “that was what I meant to 
write to you to-morrow, as it would] be better all dealings 
should be at an end between us, and somebody else put in my 5 
place.” 

Arthur felt the answer keenly, and it was not without an 
effort that he spoke again. 

“It was partly on that subject I wished to speak to you. 

I don’t want to lessen your indignation against me, or ask 10 
you to do anything for my sake. I only wish to ask you if 
you will help me to lessen the evil consequences of the past, 
which is unchangeable. I don’t mean consequences to my¬ 
self, but to others. It is but little I can do, I know. I know 
the worst consequences will remain; but something may be 15 
done, and you can help me. Will you listen to me patiently ? ” 

“Yes, sir,” said Adam, after some hesitation; “I’ll hear 
what it is. If I can help to mend anything, I will. Anger ’ull 
mend nothing, I know. We’ve had enough o’ that.” 

“I was going to the Hermitage,” said Arthur. “Will you 20 
go there with me and sit down? We can talk better there.” 

The Hermitage had never been entered since they left it 
together, for Arthur had locked up the key in his desk. And 
now, when he opened the door, there was the candle burnt out 
in the socket; there was the chair in the same place where 25 
Adam remembered sitting; there was the waste-paper basket 
full of scraps, and deep down in it, Arthur felt in an instant, 
there was the little pink silk handkerchief. It would have 
been painful to enter this place if their previous thoughts 
had been less painful. # 30 

They sat down opposite each other in the old places, and 
Arthur said, “I’m going away, Adam; I’m going into the 
army.” 

Poor Arthur felt that Adam ought to be affected by this 
announcement—ought to have a movement of sympathy 3s 
towards him. But Adam’s lips remained firmly closed, and 
the expression of his face unchanged. 


5 o6 ADAM BEDE 

“What I want to say to you,” Arthur continued, is this, 
one of my reasons for going away is, that no .one else may leave 
Hayslope—may leave their home on my account. I would do 
anything, there is no sacrifice I would not make, to prevem 
s any further injury to others through my—through what has 

^Arthur’s words had precisely the opposite effect: to that 
he had anticipated. Adam thought he perceived in them that 
notion of compensation for irretrievable wrong, that selt- 
io soothing attempt to make evil bear the same fruits as good, 
which most of all roused his indignation. He was as strongly 
impelled to look painful facts right in the face as Arthur was 
to turn away his eyes from them. Moreover, he had the wake¬ 
ful suspicious pride of a poor man in the presence ol a rich 
ie man. He felt his old severity returning as he said— 

“The time’s past for that, sir. A man should make sacri¬ 
fices to keep clear of doing a wrong; sacrifices won t undo it 
when it’s done. When people’s feelings^have got a deadly 
wound, they can’t be cured with favours. 

2 o “Favours!” said Arthur, passionately; no; how can you 
suppose I meant that? But the Poysers—Mr. Irwme tells 
me the Poysers mean to leave the place where they have lived 
so many years—for generations. Don’t you see, as Mr. ir- 
wine does, that if they could be persuaded to overcome the 
25 feeling that drives them away, it would be much better lor 
them in the end to remain on the old spot, among the mends 

and neighbours who know them?” m 

“That’s true,” said Adam, coldly. But then, sir, folks s 
feelings are not so easily overcome. It’ll be hard for Martin 
3 o Poyser to go to a strange place, among strange faces, when 
he’s been bred up on the Hall Farm, and his father before 
him; but then it ’ud be harder for a man with his feelings to 
stay. I don’t see how the thing’s to be made any other than 
hard. There’s a sort o’ damage, sir, that can’t be made up 
for 

Arthur was silent some moments. In spite of other feel¬ 
ings, dominant in him this evening, his pride winced under 


ANOTHER MEETING IN THE WOOD 


507 


Adam’s mode of treating him. Wasn’t he himself suffering? 
Was not he too obliged to renounce his most cherished hopes. 

It was now as it had been eight months ago—Adam was forc¬ 
ing Arthur to feel more intensely the irrevocableness of his 
own wrong-doing: he was presenting the sort of resistances 
that was the most irritating to Arthur’s eager, ardent nature. 
But his anger was subdued by the same influence that had 
subdued Adam’s when they first confronted each other—by 
the marks of suffering in a long familiar face. The momentary 
struggle ended in the feeling that he could bear a great deal 10 
from Adam, to whom he had been the occasion of bearing so 
much; but there was a touch of pleading, boyish vexation in 
his tone as he said— 

“But people may make injuries worse by unreasonable 
conduct—by giving way to anger and satisfying that for the 15 
moment, instead of thinking what will be the effect in the 

“if i were going to stay here and act as landlord,” he added, 
presently, with still more eagerness—“if I were careless about 
what I’ve done—what I’ve been the cause of, you would have 20 
some excuse, Adam, for going away and encouraging others 
to go. You would have some excuse then for trying to make 
the evil worse. But when I tell you I’m going away for years 
—when you know what that means for me, how it cuts off 
every plan of happiness I’ve ever formed—it is impossible for 25 
a sensible man like you to believe that there is any real ground 
for the Poysers refusing to remain. I know their feeling about 
disgrace,—Mr. Irwine has told me all; but he is of opinion 
that they might be persuaded out of this idea that they are 
disgraced in the eyes of their neighbours, and that they can 130 
remain on my estate, if you would join him in his efforts,— 
if you would stay yourself, and go on managing the old 

Arthur paused a moment, and then added, pleadingly, 
“You know that’s a good work to do for the sake of other35 
people, besides the owner. And you don’t know but that 
they may have a better owner soon, whom you will like to 


ADAM BEDE 


508 

work for. If I die, my cousin Tradgett will have the estate, 
and take my name. He is a good fellow/’ 

Adam could not help being moved: it was impossible for 
him not to feel that this was the voice of the honest, warm- 
s hearted Arthur whom he had loved and been proud of in old 
days; but nearer memories would not be thrust away. He was 
silent; yet Arthur saw an answer in his face that induced him 
to go on, with growing earnestness. 

“And then, if you would talk to the Poysers—if you would 
10 talk the matter over with Mr. Irwine—he means to see you 
to-morrow—and then if you would join your arguments to 
his to prevail on them not to go. . . . I know, of course, 

that they would not accept any favour from me: I mean 
nothing of that kind: but I’m sure they would suffer less in 
15 the end. Irwine thinks so too; and Mr. Irwine is to have the 
chief authority on the estate—he has consented to undertake 
that. They will really be under no man but one whom they 
respect and like. It would be the same with you, Adam; and 
it could be nothing but a desire to give me worse pain that 
20 could incline you to go.” 

Arthur was silent again for a little while, and then said, 
with some agitation in his voice— 

“ I wouldn’t act so towards you, I know. If you were in my 
place and I in yours, I should try to help you to do the best.” 
25 Adam made a hasty movement on his chair, and looked 
on the ground. Arthur went on— 

“ Perhaps you’ve never done anything you’ve had bitterly 
to repent of in your life, Adam; if you had, you would be 
more generous. You would know then that it’s worse for 
30 me than for you.” 

Arthur rose from his seat with the last words, and went to 
one of the windows, looking out and turning his back on 
Adam, as he continued, passionately— 

“Haven’t I loved her too? Didn’t I see her yesterday? 
35 Shan’t I carry the thought of her about with me as much as 
you will? And don’t you think you would suffer more if 
you’d been in fault?” 


ANOTHER MEETING IN THE ~JVOOD 509 

There was silence for several minutes, for the struggle in 
Adam s mind was not easily decided. Facile natures, whose 
emotions have little permanence, can hardly understand how 
much inward resistance he overcame before he rose from his 
seat and turned towards Arthur. Arthur heard the movement, s 
and turning round, met the sad but softened look with which 
Adam said— 

It s true what you say, sir: I’m hard—it’s in my nature. 

I was too hard with my father, for doing wrong. I’ve been a 
bit hard t’ everybody but her. I felt as if nobody pitied her xo 
enough—her suffering cut into me so; and when I thought 
the folks at the Farm were too hard with her, I said I’d never 
be hard to anybody myself again. But feeling overmuch 
about her has perhaps made me unfair to you. I’ve known 
what it is in my life to repent and feel it’s too late: I felt I’d i S 
been too harsh to my father when he was gone from me—I feel 
it now, when I think of him. I’ve no right to be hard towards 
them as have done wrong and repent.” 

Adam spoke these words with the firm distinctness of a 
man who is resolved to leave nothing unsaid that he is bound 20 
to say; but he went on with more hesitation. 

“ I wouldn’t shake hands with you once, sir, when you asked 
me—but if you’re willing to do it now, for all I refused then” 

Arthur s white hand was in Adam’s large grasp in an in- 25 
stant, and with that action there was a strong rush, on both 
sides, of the old, boyish affection. 

“Adam,” Arthur said, impelled to full confession now, “it 
would never have happened if I’d known you loved her. That 
would have helped to save me from it. And I did struggle:30 
I never meant to injure her. I deceived you aftwards—and 
that led on to worse; but I thought it was forced upon me, I 
thought it was the best thing I could do. And in that letter 
I told her to let me know if she were in any trouble: don’t 
think I would not have done everything I could. But I was 35 
all wrong from the very first, and horrible wrong has come of 
it. God knows, I’d give my life if I could undo it.” 


510 ADAM BEDE 

They sat down again opposite each other, and Adam said, 
tremulously— 

“How did she seem when you left her, sir?” 

“Don’t ask me, Adam,” Arthur said; “I feel sometimes as 
s if I should go mad with thinking of her looks and what she 
said to me, and then, that I couldn’t get a full pardon—that 
I couldn’t save her from that wretched fate of being trans¬ 
ported—that I can do nothing for her all those years; and 
she may die under it, and never know comfort any more.” 
io “Ah, sir,” said Adam, for the first time feeling his own pain 
merged in sympathy for Arthur, “you and me’ll often be 
thinking o’ the same thing, when we’re a long way off one an¬ 
other. I’ll pray God to help you, as I pray Him to help me.” 

“But there’s that sweet woman—that Dinah Morris,” 
15 Arthur said, pursuing his own thoughts, and not knowing 
what had been the sense of Adam’s words, “she says she shall 
stay with her to the very last moment—till she goes; and the 
poor thing clings to her as if she found some comfort in her. 
I could worship that woman; I don’t know what I should do 
20 if she were not there. Adam, you will see her when she comes 
back: I could say nothing to her yesterday—nothing of what 
I felt towards her. Tell her,” Arthur went on hurriedly, as if 
he wanted to hide the emotion with which he spoke, while he 
took off his chain and watch—“ tell her I asked you to give 
25 her this in remembrance of me—of the man to whom she is 
the one source of comfort, when he thinks of ... I 
know she doesn’t care about such things—or anything else I 
can give her for its own sake. But she will use the watch—I 
shall like to think of her using it.” 

30 “I’ll give it to her, sir,” Adam said, “and tell her your 
words. She told me she should come back to the people at 
the Hall Farm.” 

“And you will persuade the Poysers to stay, Adam?” said 
Arthur, reminded of the subject which both of them had for- 
35 gotten in the first interchange of revived friendship. “You 
will stay yourself, and help Mr. Irwine to carry out the repairs 
and improvements on the estate?” 


ANOTHER MEETING IN THE WOOD 


5ii 

“There’s one thing, sir, that perhaps you don’t take account 
of,” said Adam, with hesitating gentleness, “and that was 
what made me hang back longer. You see, it’s the same with 
both me and the Poysers: if we stay, it’s for our own worldly 
interest, and it looks as if we’d put up with anything for the 5 
sake o’ that. I know that’s what they’ll feel, and I can’t help 
feeling a little of it myself. When folks have got an honour¬ 
able, independent spirit, they don’t like to do anything that 
might make ’em seem base-minded.” 

“ But no one who knows you will think that, Adam: that is 10 
not a reason strong enough against a course that is really 
more generous, more unselfish than the other. And it will be 
known—it shall be made known, that both you and the Poy¬ 
sers stayed at my entreaty. Adam, don’t try to make things 
worse for me; I’m punished enough without that.” 15 

“No, sir, no,” Adam said, looking at Arthur with mournful 
affection. “God forbid I should make things worse for you. 

I used to wish I could do it, in my passion;—but that was 
when I thought you didn’t feel enough. I’ll stay, sir: I’ll do 
the best I can. It’s all I’ve got to think of now—to, do my 20 
work well, and make the world a bit better place for them as 
can enjoy it.” 

“Then we’ll part now, Adam. You will see Mr. Irwine to¬ 
morrow, and consult with him about everything.” 

“Are you going soon, sir?” said Adam. 25 

“As soon as possible—after I’ve made the necessary ar¬ 
rangements. Good-bye, Adam. I shall think of you going 
about the old place.” 

“Good-bye, sir. God bless you.” 

The hands were clasped once more, and Adam left the 30 
Hermitage, feeling that sorrow was more bearable now hatred 
was gone. 

As soon as the door was closed behind him, Arthur went 
to the waste-paper basket and took out the little pink silk 
handkerchief. 35 


CHAPTER XLIX 


AT THE HALL FARM 

The first autumnal afternoon sunshine of 1801—more than 
eighteen months after that parting of Adam and Arthur in 
the Hermitage—was on the yard at the Hall Farm, and the 
bulldog was in one of his most excited moments; for it was 
s that hour of the day when the cows were being driven into 
the yard for their afternoon milking. No wonder the patient 
beasts ran confusedly into the wrong places, for the alarming 
din of the bulldog was mingled with more distant sounds which 
the timid feminine creatures, with pardonable superstition, 
xo imagined also to have some relation to their own movements— 
with the tremendous crack of the waggoner’s whip, the roar 
of his voice, and the booming thunder of the waggon, as it 
left the rick-yard empty of its golden load. 

The thilking of the cows was a sight Mrs. Poyser loved, and 
15 at this hour on mild days she was usually standing at the 
house door, with her knitting in her hands, in quiet contem¬ 
plation, only heightened to a keener interest when the vicious 
yellow cow, who had once kicked over a pailful of precious 
milk, was about to undergo the preventive punishment of 
20 having her hinder-legs strapped. 

To-day, however, Mrs. Poyser gave but a divided attention 
to the arrival of the cows, for she was in eager discussion with 
Dinah, who was stitching Mr. Poyser’s shirt-collars, and had 
borne patiently to have her thread broken three times by 
2sTotty pulling at her arm with a sudden insistence that she 
should look at “Baby,” that is, at a large wooden doll with 
no legs and a long skirt, whose bald head Totty, seated in her 
small chair at Dinah’s side, was caressing and pressing to her 
fat cheek with much fervour. Totty is larger by more than 

512 


AT THE HALL FARM 


513 

two years’ growth than when you first saw her, and she has on 
a black frock under her pinafore: Mrs. Poyser too has on a 
black gown, which seems to heighten the family likeness 
between her and Dinah. In other respects there is little out¬ 
ward change now discernible in our old friends, or in the 5 
pleasant house-place, bright with polished oak and pewter. 

“I never saw the like to you, Dinah,” Mrs. Poyser was 
saying, “when you’ve once took anything into your head: 
there’s no more moving you than the rooted tree. You may 
say what you like, but I don’t believe that's religion; for 10 
what’s the °Sermon on the Mount about, as you’re so fond o’ 
reading to the boys, but doing what other folks ’ud have 
you do? But if it was anything unreasonable they wanted 
you to do, like taking your cloak off and giving it to ’em, or 
letting ’em slap you i’ the face, I daresay you’d be ready 15 
enough: it’s only when one ’ud have you do what’s plain 
common-sense and good for yourself, as you’re obstinate th’ 
other way.” 

“Nay, dear aunt,” said Dinah, smiling slightly as she went 
on with her work, “I’m sure your wish ’ud be a reason for me 20 
to do anything that I didn’t feel it was wrong to do.” 

“Wrong! You drive me past bearing. What is there 
wrong, I should like to know, i’ staying along wi’ your own 
friends, as are th’ happier for having you with ’em, an’ are 
willing to provide for you, even if your work didn’t more 25 
nor pay ’em for the bit o’ sparrow’s victual y’ eat, and the bit 
o’ rag you put on? An’ who is it, I should like to know, as 
you’re bound t’ help and comfort i’ the world more nor your 
own flesh and blood—an’ me th’ only aunt you’ve got above¬ 
ground, an’ am brought to the brink o’ the grave welly every 30 
winter as comes, an’ there’s the child as sits beside you ’ull 
break her little heart when you go, an’ the grandfather not 
been dead a twelvemonth, an’ your uncle ’ull miss you so 
as never was—a-lighting his pipe an’ waiting on him, an’ 
now I can trust you wi’ the butter, an’ have had all the trouble 35 
o’ teaching you, and there’s all the sewing to be done, an’ I 
must have a strange gell out o’ Treddles’on to do it—an’ all 


ADAM BEDE 


SH 

because you must go back to that bare heap o’ stones as the 
very crows fly over an’ won’t stop at.” 

“ Dear aunt Rachel,” said Dinah, looking up in Mrs. Poy- 
ser’s face, “it’s your kindness makes you say I’m useful to 
5 you. You don’t really want me now; for Nancy and Molly 
are clever at their work, and you’re in good health now, by 
the blessing of God, and my uncle is of a cheerful countenance 
again, and you have neighbours and friends not a few—some 
of them come to sit with my uncle almost daily. Indeed, you 
iowill not miss me; and at Snowfield there are brethren and 
sisters in great need, who have none of those comforts you 
have around you. I feel that I am called back to those 
amongst whom my lot was first cast: I feel drawn again to¬ 
wards the hills where I used to be blessed in carrying the word 
15 of life to the sinful and desolate.” 

“You feel! yes,” said Mrs. Poyser, returning from a paren¬ 
thetic glance at the cows. “That’s allays the reason I’m to 
sit down wi’, when you’ve a mind to do anything contrairy. 
What do you want to be preaching for more than you’re 
20 preaching now? Don’t you go off, the Lord knows where, 
every Sunday a-preaching and praying? an’ haven’t you got 
Methodists enow at Treddles’on to go and look at, if church 
folks’s faces are too handsome to please you? an’ isn’t there 
them i’ this parish as you’ve got under hand, and they’re 
25 like enough to make friends wi’ Old Harry again as soon as 
your back’s turned? There’s that Bessy Cranage—she’ll be 
flaunting i’ new finery three weeks after you’re gone, I’ll be 
bound: she’ll no more go on in her new ways without you, 
than a dog ’uli stand on its hind-legs when there’s nobody look- 
30 ing. But I suppose it doesna matter so much about folks’s 
souls i’ this country, else you’d be for staying with your own 
aunt, for she’s none so good but what you might help her to 
be better.” 

There was a certain something in Mrs. Poyser’s voice just 
35 then, which she did not wish to be noticed, so she turned 
round hastily to look at the clock, and said: “See there! It’s 
tea-time; an’ if Martin’s i’ the rick-yard, he’ll like a cup. 


AT THE HALL FARM 


515 


Here, Totty, my chicken, let mother put your bonnet on, and 
then you go out into the rick-yard, and see if father’s there, 
and tell him he mustn’t go away again without coming t’ have 
a cup o’ tea; and tell your brothers to come in too.” 

Totty trotted off in her flapping bonnet, while Mrs. Poyser 5 
set out the bright oak table, and reached down the tea-cups. 

“You talk o’ them gells Nancy and Molly being clever 
i’ their work,” she began again;—“it’s fine talking. They’re 
all the same, clever or stupid—one can’t trust ’em out o’ one’s 
sight a minute. They want somebody’s eye on ’em constant 10 
if they’re to be kept to their work. An’ suppose I’m ill again 
this winter, as I was the winter before last, who’s to look 
after ’em then, if you’re gone? An’ there’s that blessed child 
—something’s sure t’ happen to her—they’ll let her tumble 
into the fire, or get at the kettle wi’ the boiling lard in’t, or 15 
some mischief as ’ull lame her for life; an’ it’ll be all your fault, 
Dinah.” 

“Aunt,” said Dinah, “I promise to come back to you in 
the winter if you’re ill. Don’t think I will ever stay away 
from you if you’re in real want of me. But indeed it is need- 20 
ful for my own soul that I should go away from this life of 
ease and luxury, in which I have all things too richly to enjoy 
—at least that I should go away for a short space. No one 
can know but myself what are my inward needs, and the be- 
setments I am most in danger from. Your wish for me to 25 
stay is not a call of duty which I refuse to hearken to because 
it is against my own desires; it is a temptation that I must 
resist, lest the love of the creature should become like a mist 
in my soul shutting out the heavenly light.” 

“It passes my cunning to know what you mean by ease30 
and luxury,” said Mrs. Poyser, as she cut the bread and butter. 

“ It’s true there’s good victual enough about you, as nobody 
shall ever say I don’t provide enough and to spare, but if 
there’s ever a bit o’ odds an’ ends as nobody else ’ud eat, 
you’re sure to pick it out . . . but look there! there’s 35 
Adam Bede a-carrying the little un in. I wonder how it is 
Be’s come so early.” 


ADAM BEDE 


5*6 

Mrs. Poyser hastened to the door for the pleasure of look¬ 
ing at her darling in a new position, with love in her eyes but 
reproof on her tongue. 

“Oh for shame, Totty! Little gells o’ five year old should 
5 be ashamed to be carried. Why, Adam, she’ll break your 
arm, such a big gell as that; set her down—for shame!” 

“Nay, nay,” said Adam, “I can lift her with my hand, I’ve 
no need to take my arm to it.” 

Totty, looking as serenely unconscious of remark as a fat 
10 white puppy, was set down at the door-place, and the mother 
enforced her reproof with a shower of kisses. 

“You’re surprised to see me at this hour o’ the day,” said 
Adam. 

“Yes, but come in,” said Mrs. Poyser, making way for 
is him; “there’s no bad news, I hope?” 

“No, nothing bad,” Adam answered, as he went up to 
Dinah and put out his hand to her. She had laid down her 
work and stood up, instinctively, as he approached her. A 
faint blush died away from her pale cheek as she put her hand 
20 in his, and looked up at him timidly. 

“It’s an errand to you brought me, Dinah,” said Adam, 
apparently unconscious that he was holding her hand all the 
while; “mother’s a bit ailing, and she’s set her heart on your 
coming to stay the night with her, if you’ll be so kind. I 
25 told her I’d call and ask you as I came from the village. She 
overworks herself, and I can’t persuade her to have a little 
girl t’ help her. I don’t know what’s to be done.” 

Adam released Dinah’s hand as he ceased speaking, and 
was expecting an answer; but before she had opened her 
30 lips Mrs. Poyser said— 

“Look there now! I told you there was folks enow t’ help 
i’ this parish, wi’out going further off. There’s Mrs. Bede 
getting as old and cas’alty as can be, and she won’t let any¬ 
body but you go a-nigh her hardly. The folks at Snowfield 
35 have learnt by this time to do better wi’out you nor she can.” 

“ I’ll put my bonnet on and set off directly, if you don’t want 
anything done first, aunt,” said Dinah, folding up her work. 


AT THE HALL FARM 


517 


“Yes, I do want something done. I want you t’ have your 
tea, child; it’s all ready; and you’ll have a cup, Adam, if y’ 
arena in too big a hurry.” 

“Yes, I’ll have a cup, please; and then I’ll walk with Dinah. 
I’m going straight home, for I’ve got a lot o’ timber valua- 5 
tions to write out.” 

“Why, Adam, lad, are you here?” said Mr. Poyser, enter¬ 
ing warm and coatless, with the two black-eyed boys behind 
him, still looking as much like him as two small elephants are 
like a large one. “ How is it we’ve got sight o’ you so long 10 
before foddering-time?” 

“I came on an errand for mother,” said Adam. “She’s got 
a touch of her old complaint, and she wants Dinah to go and 
stay with her a bit.” 

“Well, we’ll spare her for your mother a little while,” said IS 
Mr. Poyser. “But we wonna spare her for anybody else, 
on’y her husband.” 

“Husbands!” said Marty, who was at the most prosaic and 
literal period of the boyish mind. “Why, Dinah hasn’t got 
a husband.” 20 

“Spare her?” said Mrs. Poyser, placing a seed-cake on the 
table, and then seating herself to pour out the tea. “But we 
must spare her, it seems, and not for a husband neither, but 
for her own megrims. Tommy, what are you doing to your 
little sister’s doll? making the child naughty, when she’d be 25. 
good if you’d let her. You shanna have a morsel o’ cake if 
you behave so.” 

Tommy, with true brotherly sympathy, was amusing him¬ 
self by turning Dolly’s skirt over her bald head, and exhibit¬ 
ing her truncated body to the general scorn—an indignity 50 
which cut Totty to the heart. 

“What do you think Dinah’s been a-telling me since dinner¬ 
time?” Mrs. Poyser continued, looking at her husband. 

“Eh! I’m a poor un at guessing,” said Mr. Poyser. 

“Why, she means to go back to Snowfield again, and work 35 
i’ the mill, and starve herself, as she used to do, like a creatur 
as has got no friends.” 


ADAM BEDE 


5*8 

Mr. Poyser did not readily find words to express his un¬ 
pleasant astonishment; he only looked from his wife to Dinah, 
who had now seated herself beside Totty, as a bulvvark against 
brotherly playfulness, and was busying herself with the chil- 
5 dren’s tea. If he had been given to making general reflections, 
it would have occurred to him that there was certainly a 
change come over Dinah, for she never used to change colour; 
but, as it was, he merely observed that her face was flushed at 
that moment. Mr. Poyser thought she looked the prettier 
iofor it: it was a flush no deeper than the petal of a monthly 
rose. Perhaps it came because her uncle was looking at her 
so fixedly, but there is no knowing; for just then Adam was 
saying, with quiet surprise— 

“Why, I hoped Dinah was settled among us for life. I 
is thought she’d given up the notion o’ going back to her old 
country.” 

“Thought! yes,” said Mrs. Poyser; “and so would^any¬ 
body else ha’ thought, as had got their right end up’ards. 
But I suppose you must be a Methodist to know what a 
20 Methodist ’ull do. It’s ill guessing what the bats are flying 
after.” 

“Why, what have we done to you, Dinah, as you must go 
away from us?” said Mr. Poyser, still pausing over his tea¬ 
cup. “ It’s like breaking your word, welly; for your aunt never 
25 had no thought but you’d make this your home.” 

“Nay, uncle,” said Dinah, trying to be quite calm. “WhenI 
first came, I said it was only for a time, as long as I could be 
of any comfort to my aunt.” 

“Well, an’ who said you’d ever left off being a comfort to 
30me?” said Mrs. Poyser. “If you didna mean to stay wi’ me, 
you’d better never ha’ come. Them as ha’ never had a cush¬ 
ion don’t miss it.” 

“Nay, nay,” said Mr. Poyser, who objected to exaggerated 
views. “Thee mustna say so; we should ha’ been ill oflF wi’out 
35 her, Lady Day was a twelvemont’: we mun be thankful for 
that, whether she stays or no. But I canna think what 
she mun leave a good home for, to go back int’ a country 


AT THE HALL FARM 


519 

where the land, most on’t, isna worth ten shillings an acre, 
rent and profits.” 

“Why, that’s just the reason she wants to go, as fur as she 
can give a reason,” said Mrs. Poyser. “She says this coun¬ 
try’s too comfortable, an’ there’s too much t’ eat, an’ folks 5 
arena miserable enough. And she’s going next week: I canna 
turn her, say what I will. It’s allays the way wi’ them meek¬ 
faced people; you may’s well pelt a bag o’ feathers as talk to 
’em. But I say it isna religion, to be so obstinate—is it now, 
Adam?” 10 

Adam saw that Dinah was more disturbed than he had ever 
seen her by any matter relating to herself, and, anxious to 
relieve her, if possible, he said, looking at her affectionately— 

“Nay, I can’t find fault with anything Dinah does. I 
believe her thoughts are better than our guesses, let ’em be is 
what they may. I should ha’ been thankful for her to stay 
among us; but if she thinks well to go, I wouldn’t cross her, 
or make it hard to her by objecting. We owe her something 
different to that.” 

As it often happens, the words intended to relieve her were 20 
just too much for Dinah’s susceptible feelings at this moment. 
The tears came into the grey eyes too fast to be hidden; and 
she got up hurriedly, meaning it to be understood that she 
was going to put on her bonnet. 

“Mother, what’s Dinah crying for?” said Totty. “She25 
isn’t a naughty dell.” 

“Thee’st gone a bit too far,” said Mr. Poyser. “We’ve 
no right t’ interfere with her doing as she likes. An’ thee’dst 
be as angry as could be wi’ me, if I said a word against any¬ 
thing she did.” # 30 

“ Because you’d very like be finding fault wi’out reason,” 
said Mrs. Poyser. “But there’s reason i’ what I say, else 
I shouldna say it. It’s easy talking for them as can’t love 
her so well as her own aunt does. An’ me got so used to her! 

I shall feel as uneasy as a new sheared sheep when she’s gone 35 
from me. An’ to think of her leaving a parish where she’s so 
looked on. There’s Mr. Irwine makes as much of her as if she 


520 


ADAM BEDE 


was a lady, for all her being a Methodist, an’ wi’ that maggot 
o’ preaching in her head; —God forgi’e me if I’m i the wrong 
to call it so.” . 

“Ay,” said Mr. Poyser, looking jocose; but thee dostna 
S tell Adam what he said to thee about it one day. The missis 
was saying, Adam, as the preaching was the only fault to be 
found wi’ Dinah, and Mr. Irwine says, But you mustn t find 
fault with her for that, Mrs. Poyser; you forget she’s got no 
husband to preach to. I’ll answer for it, you give Poyser 
io many a good sermon.’ The parson had thee there, Mr. Poy¬ 
ser added, laughing unctuously. “I told Bartle Massey on 
it, an’ he laughed too.” 

“Yes, it’s a small joke sets men laughing when they sit 
a-staring at one another with a pipe i’ their mouths,” said 
15 Mrs. Poyser. “Give Bartle Massey his way, and he’d have 
all the sharpness to himself. If the chaff-cutter had the 
making of us, we should all be straw/ I reckon. Totty, my 
chicken, go up-stairs to cousin Dinah, and see what she’s 
doing, and give her a pretty kiss.” 

20 This errand was devised for Totty as a means of checking 
certain threatening symptoms about the comers of the 
mouth; for Tommy, no longer expectant of cake, was lifting 
up his eyelids with his fore-fingers, and turning his eyeballs 
towards Totty, in a way that she felt to be disagreeably per- 
25 sonal. 

“You’re rare and busy now—eh, Adam?’ said Mr. Poyser. 
“ Burge’s getting so bad wi’ his asthmy, it’s well if he’ll ever 
do much riding about again.” 1 » 

“Yes, we’ve got a pretty bit o’ building on hand now, 
30said Adam: “what with the repairs on th’ estate, and the 
new houses at Treddles’on.” 

“I’ll bet a penny that new house Burge is budding on his 
own bit o’ land is for him and Mary to go to,” said Mr. Poy¬ 
ser. “He’ll be for laying by business soon, I’ll warrant, and 
35 be wanting you to take to it all, and pay him so much by th’ 
’ear. We shall see you living on th’ hill before another twelve- 
mont’s over.” 


AT THE HALL FARM 521 

Well, said Adam, “I should like t’ have the business in 
my own hands. It isn’t as I mind much about getting any 
more money: we’ve enough and to spare now, with only our 
two selves and mother; but I should like t’ have my own way 
about things: I could try plans then, as I can’t do now.” s 

• on P rett y well wi’ the new steward, I reckon?” 

said Mr. Poyser. 

Yes, yes; he s a sensible man enough: understands farm¬ 
ing he s carrying on the draining, and all that, capital. 
You must go some day towards the Stonyshire side, and see 10 
what alterations they’re making. But he’s got no notion 
about buildings: you can so seldom get hold of a man as can 
turn his brains to more nor one thing; it’s just as if they wore 
blinkers like th horses, and could see nothing o’ one side of 
em. Now, there’s Mr. Irwine has got notions o’ buildings 
more nor most architects; for as for th’ architects, they set up 
to be fine fellows, but the most of ’em don’t know where to 
set a chimney so as it shan’t be quarrelling with a door. My 
no 1 ™ 11 1S > a practical builder, that’s got a bit o’ taste, makes 
the best architect for common things; and I’ve ten times the 20 
pleasure 1 seeing after the work when I’ve made the plan 
myself.” 

Mr. Poyser listened with an admiring interest to Adam’s 
discourse on building; but perhaps it suggested to him that 
the building of his corn-rick had been proceeding a little too 25 
long without the control of the master’s eye; for when Adam 
had done speaking, he got up and said— 

Well, lad, I’ll bid you good-bye now, for I’m off to the 
rick-yard again.” 

Adam rose too, for he saw Dinah entering, with her bonnet 30 
on ) < an d a little basket in her hand, preceded by Totty. 

“You’re ready, I see, Dinah,” Adam said; “so we’ll set 
° << for the sooner I’m at home the better.” 

“Mother,” said Totty, with her treble pipe, “Dinah was 
saying her prayers and crying ever so.” 3S 

Hush, hush, said the mother: “little gells mustn’t 
chatter.” 


ADAM BEDE 


522 

Whereupon the father, shaking with silent laughter, set 
Totty on the white deal table, and desired her to kiss him. Mr. 
and Mrs. Poyser, you perceive, had no correct principles of 
education. 

5 “Come back to-morrow if Mrs. Bede doesn t want you, 
Dinah/’ said Mrs. Poyser: “but you can stay, you know, if 

she’s ill.” 1 a j 

So, when the good-byes had been said, Dinah and Adam 
left the Hall Farm together. 


CHAPTER L 


IN THE COTTAGE 

Adam did not ask Dinah to take his arm when they got 
out into the lane. He had never yet done so, often as they 
had walked together; for he had observed that she never 
walked arm-in-arm with Seth, and he thought, perhaps, that 
kind of support was not agreeable to her. So they walked 5 
apart, though side by side, and the close poke of her little 
black bonnet hid her face from him. 

“You can’t be happy, then, to make the Hall Farm your 
home, Dinah?” Adam said, with the quiet interest of a 
brother, who has no anxiety for himself in the matter. “ It’s 10 
a pity, seeing they’re so fond of you.” 

“You know T , Adam, my heart is as their heart, so far as love 
for them and care for their welfare goes; but they are in 
no present need, their sorrows are healed, and I feel that I am 
called back to my old work, in which I found a blessing that 15 
I have missed of late in the midst of too abundant worldly 
good. I know it is a vain thought to flee from the work that 
God appoints us, for the sake of finding a greater blessing to 
our own souls, as if we could choose for ourselves where we 
shall find the fulness of the Divine Presence, instead of seek- 20 
ing it where alone it is to be found, in loving obedience. But 
now, I believe, I have a clear showing that my work lies else¬ 
where—at least for a time. In the years to come, if my aunt’s 
health should fail, or she should otherwise need me, I shall 
return.” 25 

“You know best, Dinah,” said Adam. “I don’t believe 
you’d go against the wishes of them that love you, and are 
akin to you, without a good and sufficient reason in your own 
conscience. I’ve no right to say anything about my being 


S23 


524 


ADAM BEDE 


sorry: you know well enough what cause I have to put you 
above every other friend I’ve got; and if it had been ordered 
so that you could ha’ been my sister, and lived with us all our 
lives, I should ha’ counted it the greatest blessing as ? could 
s happen to us now; but Seth tells me there’s no hope o that: 
your feelings are different; and perhaps I m taking too much 
upon me to speak about it.” 

Dinah made no answer, and they walked on in silence for 
some yards, till they came to the stone stile; where, as Adam 
io had passed through first, and turned round to give her his 
hand while she mounted the unusually high step, she could 
not prevent him from seeing her face. It struck him with 
surprise; for the grey eyes, usually so mild and grave, had the 
bright uneasy glance which accompanies suppressed agitation, 
15 and the slight flush in her cheeks, with which she had come 
down-stairs, was heightened to a deep rose-colour. She looked 
as if she were only sister to Dinah. Adam was silent with 
surprise and conjecture for some moments, and then he said— 
“I hope I’ve not hurt or displeased you by what I’ve said, 
20 Dinah: perhaps I was making too free. I’ve no wish different 
from what you see to be best; and I’m satisfied for you to live 
thirty mile off, if you think it right. I shall think of you just 
as much as I do now; for you’re bound up with what I can no 
more help remembering, than I can help my heart beating. 

25 Poor Adam! Thus do men blunder. Dinah made no 
answer, but she presently said— 

“Have you heard any news from that poor young man, since 
we last spoke of him?” 

Dinah always called Arthur so; she had never lost the 
3 o image of him as she had seen him in the prison. 

“Yes,” said Adam. “Mr. Irwine read me part of a letter 
from him yesterday. It’s pretty certain, they^ say, °that 
there’ll be a peace soon, though nobody believes it’ll last long; 
but he says he doesn’t mean to come home. He’s no heart for 
35 it yet; and it’s better for others that he should keep away. 
Mr. Irwine thinks he’s in the right not to come:—it’s a sor¬ 
rowful letter. He asks about you and the Poysers, as he 


THE COTTAGE 


525 

always does. There’s one thing in the letter cut me a good 
deal:—‘You can’t think what an old fellow I feel,’ he says; 

‘ I make no schemes now. I’m the best when I’ve a good day’s 
march or fighting before me.’ ” 

“ He’s of a rash, warm-hearted nature, °like Esau, for whom 5 
I have always felt great pity,” said Dinah. “That meeting 
between the brothers, where Esau is so loving and generous, 
and Jacob so timid and distrustful, notwithstanding his sense 
of the Divine favour, has always touched me greatly. Truly, 

I have been tempted sometimes to say that Jacob was of a 10 
mean spirit. But that is our trial:—we must learn to see the 
good in the midst of much that is unlovely.” 

“Ah,” said Adam,° “I like to read about Moses best, in th’ 
Old Testament. He carried a hard business well through, and 
died when other folks were going to reap the fruits: a man 15 
must have courage to look at his life so, and think what’ll 
come of it after he’s dead and gone. A good solid bit o’ work 
lasts: if it’s only laying a floor down, somebody’s the better 
for it being done well, besides the man as does it.” 

They were both glad to talk of subjects that were not per- 20 
sonal, and in this way they went on till they passed the bridge 
across the Willow Brook, when Adam turned round and said— 
“Ah, here’s Seth. I thought he’d be home soon. Does he 
know of you’re going, Dinah ? ” 

“Yes, I told him last Sabbath.” 25 

Adam remembered now that Seth had come home much 
depressed on Sunday evening, a circumstance which had been 
very unusual with him of late, for the happiness he had in 
seeing Dinah every week seemed long to have outweighed the 
pain of knowing she would never marry him. This evening 30 
he had his habitual air of dreamy benignant contentment, 
until he came quite close to Dinah, and saw the traces of tears 
on her delicate eyelids and eyelashes. He gave one rapid 
glance at his brother; but Adam was evidently quite outside 
the current of emotion that had shaken Dinah: he wore his35 
every-day look of unexpectant calm. Seth tried not to let 
Dinah see that he had noticed her face, and only said— 


526 


ADAM BEDE 


5 


io 


IS 


20 


25 


“I’m thankful you’re come, Dinah, for mother’s been 
hungering after the sight of you all day. She began to talk 
of you the first thing in the morning.” . . 

When they entered the cottage, Lisbeth was seated in 
her arm-chair, too tired with setting out the evening meal, 
a task she always performed a long time beforehand, to go and 
meet them at the door as usual, when she heard the approach¬ 
ing footsteps. 

“Coom, child, thee’t coom at last,” she said,^when Dinah 
went towards her. “What dost mane by lavin’ me a week, 
an’ ne’er coomin’ a-nigh me?” 

“ Dear friend,” said Dinah, taking her hand, you re not 
well. If I’d known it sooner, I’d have come.” ^ 

“An’ how’s thee t’ know if thee dostna coom? Th’ lads 
on’y know what I tell ’em: as long as ye can stir hand and 
foot the men think ye’re hearty. But I’m none so bad, on’y 
a bit of a cold sets me achin’. An’ th’ lads tease me so t’ ha’ 
somebody wi’ me t’ do the work—they make me ache worse 
wi’ talkin’. If thee’dst come and stay wi’ me, they’d let me 
alone. The Poysers canna want thee so bad as I do. But 
take thy bonnet off, an’ let me look at thee.” 

Dinah was moving away, but Lisbeth held her fast, while 
she was taking off her bonnet, and looked at her face, as one 
looks into a newly-gathered snowdrop, to renew the old im¬ 
pressions of purity and gentleness. 

“What’s the matter wi’ thee?” said Lisbeth, in astonish¬ 


ment; “thee’st been a-cryin’.” 

“It’s only a grief that’ll pass away,” said Dinah, who did 
not wish just now to call forth Lisbeth’s remonstrances by 
3 odisclosing her intention to leave Hayslope. “You shall know 
about it shortly—we’ll talk of it to-night. I shall stay with 
you to-night.” 

Lisbeth was pacified by this prospect; and she had the 
whole evening to talk with Dinah alone; for there was a 
35 new room in the cottage, you remember, built nearly two 
years ago, in the expectation of a new inmate; and here Adam 
always sat when he had writing to do, or plans to make. Seth 


THE COTTAGE 


527 

sat there too this evening, for he knew his mother would like 
to have Dinah all to herself. 

There were two pretty pictures on the two sides of the wall 
in the cottage. On one side there was the broad-shouldered, 
large-featured, hardy old woman, in her blue jacket and buff 5 
kerchief, with her dim-eyed anxious looks turned continually 
on the lily face and the slight form in the black dress that were 
either moving lightly about in helpful activity, or seated 
close by the old woman’s arm-chair, holding her withered 
hand, with eyes lifted up towards her to speak a language 10 
which Lisbeth understood far better than the Bible or the 
hymn-book. She would scarcely listen to reading at all to¬ 
night. “Nay, nay, shut the book,” she said. “We mun talk. 

I want t’ know what thee was cryin’ about. Hast got troubles 
o’ thy own, like other folks?” is 

On the other side of the wall there were the two brothers, 
so like each other in the midst of their unlikeness: Adam, 
with knit brows, shaggy hair, and dark vigorous colour, ab¬ 
sorbed in his “figuring;” Seth, with large rugged features, the 
close copy of his brother’s, but with thin wavy brown hair 20 
and blue dreamy eyes, as often as not looking vaguely out of 
the window instead of at his book, although it was a newly- 
bought book—“Wesley’s abridgment of Madame Guyon’s life, 
which was full of wonder and interest for him. Seth had said 
to Adam, “Can I help thee with anything in here to-night? 1 25 
don’t want to make a noise in the shop.” 

“No, lad,” Adam answered, “there’s nothing but what I 
must do myself. Thee’st got thy new book to read.” 

And often, when Seth was quite unconscious, Adam, as he 
paused after drawing a line with his ruler, looked at his 30 
brother with a kind smile dawning in his eyes. He knew 
“th’ lad liked to sit full o’ thoughts he could give no ac¬ 
count of; they’d never come t’ anything, but they made him 
happy;” and in the last year or so, Adam had been getting 
more and more indulgent to Seth. It was part of that grow-35 
ing tenderness which came from the sorrow at work within 
him. 


ADAM BEDE 


528 

For Adam, though you see him quite master of himself, 
working hard and delighting in his work after his inborn in¬ 
alienable nature, had not outlived his sorrow—had not felt it 
slip from him as a temporary burthen, and leave him the 
5 same man again. Do any of us? God forbid. It would be a 
poor result of all our anguish and our wrestling, if we won 
nothing but our old selves at the end of it—if we could return 
to the same blind loves, the same self-confident blame, the 
same light thoughts of human suffering, the same frivolous 
10 gossip over blighted human lives, the same feeble sense of 
that Unknown towards which we have sent forth irrepressible 
cries in our loneliness. Let us rather be thankful that our 
sorrow lives in us as an indestructible force, pnly changing its 
form, as forces do, and passing from pain into sympathy— 
15 the one poor word which includes all our best insight and our 
best love. Not that this transformation of pain into sym¬ 
pathy had completely taken place in Adam yet: there was still 
a great remnant of pain, and this he felt would subsist as long 
as her pain was not a memory, but an existing thing, which 
20 he must think of as renewed with the light of every new 
morning. But we get accustomed to mental as well as bod¬ 
ily pain, without, for all that, losing our sensibility to it: it 
becomes a habit of our lives, and we cease to imagine a con¬ 
dition of perfect ease as possible for us. Desire is chastened 
:2s into submission; and we are contented with our day when we 
have been able to bear our grief in silence, and act as if we 
were not suffering. For it is at such periods that the sense of 
our lives having visible and invisible relations beyond any of 
which either our present or prospective self is the centre, grows 
30 like a muscle that we are obliged to lean on and exert. 

That was Adam’s state of mind in this second autumn of 
his sorrow. His work, as you know, had always been part of 
his religion, and from very early days he saw clearly that good 
carpentry was God’s will—was that form of God’s will that 
35 most immediately concerned him; but now there was no mar¬ 
gin of dreams for him beyond this daylight reality, no holiday¬ 
time in the working-day world; no moment in the distance 


THE COTTAGE 


529 


when duty would take off her iron glove and breastplate, and 
clasp him gently into rest. He conceived no picture of the 
future but one made up of hard-working days such as he lived 
through, with growing contentment and intensity of interest, 
every fresh week: love, he thought, could never be anything to 5 
him but a living memory—a limb lopped off, but not gone 
from consciousness. He did not know that the power of lov¬ 
ing was all the while gaining new force within him; that the 
new sensibilities brought by a deep experience were so many 
new fibres by which it was possible, nay, necessary to him, 10 
that his nature should intertwine with another. Yet he was 
aware that common affection and friendship were more pre¬ 
cious to him than they used to be,—that he clung more to his 
mother and Seth, and had an unspeakable satisfaction in the 
sight or imagination of any small addition to their happiness. 15 
The Poysers, too—hardly three or four days passed but he 
felt the need of seeing them, and interchanging words and 
looks of friendliness with them: he would have felt this, prob¬ 
ably, even if Dinah had not been with them; but he had only 
said the simplest truth in telling Dinah that he put her above 20 
all other friends in the world. Could anything be more nat¬ 
ural? For in the darkest moments of memory the thought of 
her always came as the first ray of returning comfort: the 
early days of gloom at the Hall Farm had been gradually 
turned into soft moonlight by her presence; and in the cot- 25 
tage, too,— for she had come at every spare moment to 
soothe and cheer poor Lisbeth, who had been stricken with a 
fear that subdued even her querulousness, at the sight of her 
darling Adam’s grief-worn face. He had become used to 
watching her light quiet movements, her pretty loving ways 30 
to the children, when he went to the Hall Farm; to listen for 
her voice as for a recurrent music; to think everything she 
said and did was just right, and could not have been better. 

In spite of his wisdom, he could not find fault with her for her 
over-indulgence of the children, who had managed to convert 35 
Dinah the preacher, before whom a circle of rough men had 
often trembled a little, into a convenient household slave; 


53 o 


ADAM BEDE 


though Dinah herself was rather ashamed of this weakness, 
and had some inward conflict as to her departure from the 
precepts of Solomon. Yes, there was one thing that might 
have been better; she might have loved Seth and consented to 
5 marry him. He felt a little vexed, for his brother’s sake; 
and he could not help thinking regretfully how Dinah, as 
Seth’s wife, would have made their home as happy as it could 
be for them all—how she was the one being that would have 
soothed their mother’s last days into peacefulness and rest, 
io “It’s wonderful she doesn’t love th’ lad,” Adam had said 
sometimes to himself; “for anybody ’ud think he was just cut 
out for her. But her heart’s so taken up with other things. 
She’s one o’ those women that feel no drawing towards having 
a husband and children o’ their own. She thinks she should 
15 be filled up with her own life then; and she’s been used so to 
living in other folks’s cares, she can’t bear the thought of her 
heart being shut up from ’em. I see how it is, well enough. 
She s cut out o’ different stuff from most women: I saw that 
long ago.. She’s never easy but when she’s helping somebody, 
20 and marriage ’ud interfere with her ways,—that’s true. I’ve 
no right to be contriving and thinking it ’ud be better if she’d 
have Seth, as if I was wiser than she is;—or than God either, 
for He made her what she is, and that’s one o’ the greatest 
blessings I’ve ever had from His hands, and others besides me.” 
25 This self-reproof had recurred strongly to Adam’s mind, 
when he gathered from Dinah’s face that he had wounded 
her by referring to his wish that she had accepted Seth, and 
so he had endeavoured to put into the strongest words his 
confidence in her decision as right—his resignation even to her 
30 going away from them, and ceasing to make part of their life 
otherwise than by living in their thoughts, if that separation 
were chosen by herself. He felt sure she knew quite well 
enough how much he cared to see her continually—to talk to 
her with the silent consciousness of a mutual great remem- 
35 brance. It was not possible she should hear anything but self- 
renouncing affection and respect in his assurance that he was 
contented for her to go away; and yet there remained an 


THE COTTAGE 


S3i 


uneasy feeling in his mind that he had not said quite the right 
thing—that, somehow, Dinah had not understood him. 

Dinah must have risen a little before the sun the next 
morning for she was down-stairs about five o’clock. So was 
Seth; for, through Lisbeth’s obstinate refusal to have any 5 
woman-helper in the house, he had learned to make himself, 
as Adam said, “very handy in the housework,” that he might 
save his mother from too great weariness; on which ground I 
hope you will not think him unmanly, any more than you 
can have thought the °gallant Colonel Bath unmanly when 10 
he made the gruel for his invalid sister. Adam, who had sat 
up late at his writing, was still asleep, and was not likely, 
Seth said, to be down till breakfast-time. Often as Dinah had 
visited Lisbeth during the last eighteen months, she had never 
slept in the cottage since that night after Thias’s death, when, 15 
you remember, Lisbeth praised her deft movements, and even 
gave a modified approval to her porridge. But in that long in¬ 
terval Dinah had made great advances in household clever¬ 
ness: and this morning, since Seth was there to help, she was 
bent on bringing everything to a pitch of cleanliness and order 20 
that would have satisfied her aunt Poyser. The cottage was 
far from that standard at present, for Lisbeth’s rheumatism 
had forced her to give up her old habits of dilettante scouring 
and polishing. When the kitchen was to her mind, Dinah 
went into the new room, where Adam had been writing the 25 
night before, to see what sweeping and dusting were needed 
there. She opened the window and let in the fresh morning 
air, and the smell of the sweetbriar, and the bright low- 
slanting rays of the early sun, which made a glory about her 
pale face and pale auburn hair as she held the long brush, and 30 
swept, singing to herself in a very low tone—like a sweet sum¬ 
mer murmur that you have to [listen for very closely—one of 
Charles Wesley’s hymns: 

“Eternal Beam of Light Divine 

Fountain of unexhausted love, 35 

In whom the Father’s glories shine, 

Through earth beneath and heaven above; 


ADAM BEDE 

Jesus! the weary wanderer’s rest, 

Give me thy easy yoke to bear; 

With steadfast patience arm my breast, 

With spotless love and holy fear. 

Speak to my warring passions^‘Peace!’ 

Say to my trembling heart, ‘Be still!’ 

Thy power my strength and fortress is, 

For all things serve thy sovereign will.” 

She laid by the brush and took up the duster; and if you 
io had ever lived in Mrs. Poyser’s household, you would know 
how the duster behaved in Dinah’s hand—how it went into 
every small corner, and on every ledge in and out of sight— 
how it went again and again round every bar of the chairs, 
and every leg, and under and over everything that lay on 
is the table, till it came to Adam’s papers and rulers, and the 
open desk near them. Dinah dusted up to the very edge of 
these, and then hesitated, looking at them with a longing but 
timid eye. It was painful to see how much dust there was among 
them. As she was looking in this way, she heard Seth’s step 
20 just outside the open door, towards which her back was 
turned, and said, raising her clear treble— 

“Seth, is your brother wrathful when his papers are 
stirred?” 

“Yes, very, when they are not put back in the right places,” 
25 said a deep strong voice, not Seth’s. 

It was as if Dinah had put her hands unawares on a vibrat¬ 
ing chord; she was shaken with an intense thrill, and for the 
instant felt nothing else; then she knew her cheeks were glow¬ 
ing, and dared not look round, but stood still, distressed 
30 because she could not say good-morning in a friendly way. 
Adam, finding that she did not look round so as to see the 
smile on his face, was afraid she had thought him serious 
about his wrathfulness, and went up to her, so that she was 
obliged to look at him. 

35 “What! you think I’m a cross fellow at home, Dinah?” 
he said, smilingly. 


532 


5 


THE COTTAGE 


533 

“Nay,” said Dinah, looking up with timid eyes, “not so. 
But you might be put about by finding things meddled with; 
and °even the man Moses, the meekest of men, was wrathful 
sometimes.” 

“Come, then,” said Adam, looking at her affectionately, 5 
“ I’ll help you move the things, and put ’em back again, and 
then they can’t get wrong. You’re getting to be your aunt’s 
own niece, I see, for particularness.” 

They began their little task together, but Dinah had not 
recovered herself sufficiently to think of any remark, and 10 
Adam looked at her uneasily. Dinah, he thought, had seemed 
to disapprove him somehow lately; she had not been so kind 
and open to him as she used to be. He wanted her to look at 
him, and be as pleased as he was himself with doing this bit 
of playful work. But Dinah did not look at him—it was easy 15 
for her to avoid looking at the tall man; and when at last there 
was no more dusting to be done, and no further excuse for 
him to linger near her, he could bear it no longer, and said, 
in rather a pleading tone— 

“Dinah, you’re not displeased with me for anything, are20 
you? I’ve not said or done anything to make you think ill 
of me?” 

The question surprised her, and relieved her by giving a 
new course to her feeling. She looked up at him now, quite 
earnestly, almost with the tears coming, and said— 25 

“Oh, no, Adam! how could you think so?” 

“I couldn’t bear you not to feel as much a friend to me as 
I do to you,” said Adam. “And you don’t know the value I 
set on the very thought of you, Dinah. That was what I 
meant yesterday, when I said I’d be content for you to go, 30 
if you thought right. I meant, the thought of you was worth 
so much to me, I should feel I ought to be thankful, and not 
grumble, if you see right to go away. You know I do mind 
parting with you, Dinah?” 

“Yes, dear friend,” said Dinah, trembling, but trying to35 
speak calmly, “I know you have a brother’s heart towards 
me, and we shall often be with one another in spirit; but at 


ADAM BEDE 


534 

this season I am in heaviness through manifold temptations: 
you must not mark me. I feel called to leave my kindred for 
a while; but it is a trial: the °flesh is weak.” 

Adam saw that it pained her to be obliged to answer. 

5 “I hurt you by talking about it, Dinah,” he said: HI say 
no more. Let’s see if Seth’s ready with breakfast now.’ 

That is a simple scene, reader. But it is almost certain that 
you, too, have been in love—perhaps, even, more than once, 
though you may not choose to say so to all your feminine 
io friends. If so, you will no more think the slight words, the 
timid looks, the tremulous touches, by which two human 
souls approach each other gradually, like two little quivering 
rain-streams, before they mingle into one—you will no more 
think these things trivial than you will think the first-detected 
15 signs of coming spring trivial, though they be but a faint, in¬ 
describable something in the air and in the song of the birds, 
and the tiniest perceptible budding on the hedgerow branches. 
Those slight words and looks and touches are part of the soul’s 
language; and the finest language, I believe, is chiefly made 
20up of unimposing words, such as “light,” “sound,” “stars,” 
“music,”—words really not worth looking at, or hearing, in 
themselves, any more than “chips” or “sawdust:” it is only 
that they happen to be the signs of something unspeakably 
great and beautiful. I am of opinion that love is a great and 
25 beautiful thing too; and if you agree with me, the smallest 
signs of it will not be chips and sawdust to you: they will 
rather be like those little words, “light” and “music,” stir¬ 
ring the long-winding fibres of your memory, and enriching 
your present with your most precious past. 


CHAPTER LI 

SUNDAY MORNING 

Lisbeth’s touch of rheumatism could not be made to appear 
serious enough to detain Dinah another night from the Hall 
Farm, now she had made up her mind to leave her aunt so 
soon; and at evening the friends must part. “For a long 
while,” Dinah had said; for she had told Lisbeth of her resolve. 5 

“Then it’ll be for all my life, an’ I shall ne’er see thee 
again,” said Lisbeth. “Long while! I’ n got no long while t’ 
live. An’ I shall be took bad an’ die, an’ thee canst ne er 
come a-nigh me, an’ I shall die a-longing for thee.” 

That had been the key-note of her wailing talk all day; for 10 
Adam was not in the house, and so she put no restraint on her 
complaining. She had tried poor Dinah by returning again 
and again to the question, why she must go away; and refus¬ 
ing to accept reasons, which Seemed to her nothing but whim 
and “contrariness;” and still more, by regretting that she i S 
“couldna ha’ one o’ the lads,” and be her daughter. 

“Thee couldstna put up wi’ Seth,” she said: ‘ he isna 
diver enough for thee, happen; but he’d ha’ been very good 
t » t hee—he’s as handy as can be at doin’ things for me when 
I’m bad; an’ he’s as fond o’ the Bible an’ chappellin’ as thee 20 
art thysen. But happen, thee’dst like a husband better as 
isna just the cut o’ thysen: the runnin’ brook isna athirst for 
th’ rain. Adam ’ud ha’ done for thee—I know he would; 
an’ he might come t’ like thee well enough, if thee’dst stop. 
But he’s as stubborn as th’ iron bar—there’s no bending him 25 
no way but’s own. But he’d be a fine husband for anybody, 
be they who they will, so looked-on an’ diver as he is. And 
he’d be rare an’ lovin’: it does me good on’y a look o the lad s 
eye, when he means kind tow rt me. 

535 


ADAM BEDE 


536 

Dinah tried to escape from Lisbeth’s closest looks and ques¬ 
tions by finding little tasks of housework, that kept her mov¬ 
ing about; and as soon as Seth came home in the evening she 
put on her bonnet to go. It touched Dinah keenly to say the 
s last good-bye, and still more to look round on her way across 
~ t he fields, and see the old woman still standing at the door, 
gazing after her till she must have been the faintest speck’ in 
the dim aged eyes. °“The God of love and peace be with 
them,” Dinah prayed, as she looked back from the last stile. 
10 °“ Make them glad according to the days wherein thou hast 
afflicted them, and the years wherein they have seen evil. 
It is thy will that I should part from them; let me have no will 
but thine. ,, . 

Lisbeth turned into the house at last, and sat down in the 
15 workshop near Seth, who was busying himself there with fit¬ 
ting some bits of turned wood he had brought from the vil¬ 
lage, into a small work-box which he meant to give to Dinah 
before she went away. 

“Thee’t see her again o’ Sunday afore she goes,” were her 
20 first words. “ If thee wast good for anything, thee’dst make her 
come in again o’ Sunday night wi’ thee, and see me once more.” 

“Nay, mother,” said Seth, “Dinah ’ud be sure to come 
again if she saw right to come. I should have no need to 
persuade her. She only thinks it ’ud be troubling thee for 
25 nought, just to come in to say good-bye over again.” 

“She’d ne’er go away, I know, if Adam ’ud be fond on her 
an’ marry her; but everything’s so contrairy,” said Lisbeth, 
with a burst of vexation. k J | 

Seth paused a moment, and looked up, with a slight blush, 
30 at his mother’s face. “What! has she said anything o’ that 
sort to thee, mother?” he said, in a lower tone. 

“Said? nay, she’ll say nothin’. It’s on’y the men as have 
to wait till folks say things afore they find ’em out.” 

“Well, but what makes thee think so, mother? What’s 
35 put it into thy head?” 

“It’s no matter what’s put it into my head: my head’s none 
so hollow as it must get in, an’ nought to put it there. I know 



SUNDAY MORNING 


537 


she’s fond on him, as I know th’ wind’s cornin’ in at the door, 
an’ that’s anoof. An’ he might be willin’ to marry her if he 
know’d she’s fond on him, but he’ll ne’er think on’t if some¬ 
body doesna put it into’s head.” 

His mother’s suggestion about Dinah’s feeling towards 5 
Adam was not quite a new thought to Seth, but her last words 
alarmed him, lest she should herself undertake to open 
Adam’s eyes. He was not sure about Dinah’s feeling, and 
he thought he was sure about Adam’s. 

“Nay, mother, nay,” he said, earnestly, “thee mustna 10 
think o’ speaking o’ such things to Adam. Thee’st no right 
to say what Dinah’s feelings are if she hasna told thee; and 
it ’ud do nothing but mischief to say such things to Adam: 
he feels very grateful and affectionate toward Dinah, but he’s 
no thoughts towards her that ’ud incline him to make her his is 
wife; and I don’t believe Dinah ’ud marry him either. I 
don’t think she’ll marry at all.” ? 

“Eh,” said Lisbeth, impatiently. “Thee think st so cause 
she wouldna ha’ thee. She’ll ne’er marry thee; thee mightst 
as well like her t’ ha’ thy brother.” 20 

Seth was hurt. “ Mother,” he said, in a remonstrating tone, 
“don’t think that of me. I should be as thankful t have her 
for a sister as thee wouldst t’ have her for a daughter. I’ve 
no more thoughts about myself in that thing, and I shall take 
it hard if ever thee say’st it again.” . . 25 

“Well, well, then thee shouldstna cross me wi sayin things 
arena as I say they are.” . 

“But, mother,” said Seth, “theedst be doing Dinah a 
wrong by telling Adam what thee think’st about her. It 
’ud do nothing but mischief; for it ’ud make Adam uneasy 30 
if he doesna feel the same to her. And I’m pretty sure he 
feels nothing o’ the sort.” , 

“Eh, donna tell me what thee’t sure on; thee know st 
nought about it. What’s he allays goin’ to the Poysers’ for, 
if he didna want t’ see her ? He goes twice where he used t go 35 
once. Happen he knowsna as he wants t’ see her; he knowsna 
as I put salt in’s broth, but he’d miss it pretty quick if it 


ADAM BEDE 


538 

warna there. He’ll ne’er think o’ marrying if it isna put into’s 
head; an’ if thee’dst any love for thy mother, thee’dst put 
him up to’t, an’ not let her go away out o’ my sight, when I 
might ha’ her to make a bit o’ comfort for me afore I go to bed 
5 to my old man under the white thorn.” 

“Nay, mother,” said Seth, “thee mustna think me unkind; 
but I should be going against my conscience if I took upon 
me to say what Dinah’s feelings are. And besides that, I think 
I should give offence to Adam by speaking to him at all about 
to marrying; and I counsel thee not to do’t. Thee may’st be 
quite deceived about Dinah; nay, I’m pretty sure, by words 
she said to me last Sabbath, as she’s no mind to marry.” 

“Eh, thee’t as contrairy as the rest on ’em. If it war sum- 
mat I didna want, it ’ud be done fast enough.” 
is Lisbeth rose from the bench at this, and went out of the 
workshop, leaving Seth in much anxiety lest she should dis¬ 
turb Adam’s mind about Dinah. He consoled himself after 
a time with reflecting that, since Adam’s trouble, Lisbeth 
had been very timid about speaking to him on matters of 
20 feeling, and that she would hardly dare to approach this ten- 
derest of all subjects. Even if she did, he hoped Adam would 
not take much notice of what she said. 

Seth was right in believing that Lisbeth would be held in 
restraint by timidity; and during the next three days, the 
25 intervals in which she had an opportunity of speaking to 
Adam were too rare and short to cause her any strong tempta¬ 
tion. But in her long solitary hours she brooded over her 
regretful thoughts about Dinah, till they had grown very 
near that point of unmanageable strength when thoughts are 
30 apt to take wing out of their secret nest in a startling manner. 
And on Sunday morning, when Seth went away to chapel at 
Treddleston, the dangerous opportunity came. 

Sunday morning was the happiest time in all the week to 
Lisbeth; for as there was no service at Hayslope church till 
35 the afternoon, Adam was always at home, doing nothing but 
reading, an occupation in which she could venture to inter¬ 
rupt him. Moreover, she had always a better dinner than 


SUNDAY MORNING 


539 

usual to prepare for her sons—very frequently for Adam and 
herself alone, Seth being often away the entire day; and the 
smell of the roast-meat before the clear fire in the clean kitch¬ 
en, the clock ticking in a peaceful Sunday manner, her darling 
Adam seated near her in his best clothes, doing nothing very 5 
important, so that she could go and stroke her hand across 
his hair if she liked, and see him look up at her and smile, 
while Gyp, rather jealous, poked his muzzle up between 
them,—all these things made poor Lisbeth’s earthly paradise. 

The book Adam most often read on a Sunday morning was 10 
his large pictured Bible, and this morning it lay open before 
him on the round white deal table in the kitchen; for he sat 
there in spite of the fire, because he knew his mother liked to 
have him with her, and it was the only day in the week when 
he could indulge her in that way. You would have liked to 15 
see Adam reading his Bible: he never opened it on a week-day, 
and so he came to it as a holiday book, serving him for history, 
biography, and poetry. He held one hand thrust between his 
waist-coat buttons, and the other ready to turn the pages; and 
in the course of the morning you would have seen many 20 
changes in his face. Sometimes his lips moved in semi¬ 
articulation—it was when he came to a speech that he could 
fancy himself uttering, °such as Samuel’s dying speech to the 
people; then his eyebrows would be raised, and the corners of 
his mouth would quiver a little with sad sympathy—some- 25 
thing, perhaps old °Isaac’s meeting with his son, touched him 
closely; at other times, over the New Testament, a very sol¬ 
emn look would come upon his face, and he would every now 
and then shake his head in serious assent, or just lift up his 
hand and let it fall again; and on some mornings, when he 30 
read in the °Apocrypha, of which he was very fond, the °son 
of Sirach’s keen-edged words would bring a delighted smile, 
though he also enjoyed the freedom of occasionally differing 
from an Apocryphal writer. For Adam knew the °Articles 
quite well, as became a good churchman. 35 

Lisbeth, in the pauses of attending to her dinner, always 
sat opposite to him and watched him, till she could rest no 


540 


ADAM BEDE 


longer without going up to him and giving him a caress, to 
call his attention to her. This morning he was reading the 
Gospel according to St. Matthew, and Lisbeth had been 
standing close by him for some minutes, stroking his hair, 
5 which was smoother than usual this morning, and looking 
down at the large page with silent wonderment at the mystery 
of letters. She was encouraged to continue this caress, be¬ 
cause when she first went up to him, he had thrown himself 
back in his chair to look at her affectionately and say, “Why, 
io mother, thee look’st rare and hearty this morning. Eh, Gyp 
wants me t’ look at him: he can’t abide to think I love thee 
the best.” Lisbeth said nothing, because she wanted to say 
so many things. And now there was a new leaf to be turned 
over, and it was a picture—that of the °angel seated on the 
is great stone that has been rolled away from the sepulchre. 
This picture had one strong association in Lisbeth’s memory, 
for she had been reminded of it when she first saw Dinah; 
and Adam had no sooner turned the page, and lifted the book 
sideways that they might look at the angel, than she said, 
20 “That’s her—that’s Dinah.” 

Adam smiLed, and, looking more intently at the angel’s 
face, said— 

“It is a bit like her; but Dinah’s prettier, I think.” 

“Well, then, if thee think’st her so pretty, why arn’t fond 
25 on her?” 

Adam looked up in surprise. “Why, mother, dost think 
I don’t set store by Dinah?” 

“Nay,” said Lisbeth, frightened at her own courage, yet 
feeling that she had broken the ice, and the waters must flow, 
30 whatever mischief they might do. “What’s th’ use o’ settin’ 
store by things as are thirty mile off? If thee wast fond 
enough on her thee wouldstna let her go away.” 

“But I’ve no right t’ hinder her, if she thinks well,” said 
Adam,* looking at his book as if he wanted to go on read- 
35 ing. He foresaw a series of complaints tending to nothing. 
Lisbeth sat down again in the chair opposite to him, as she 
said— 


SUNDAY MORNING 


S4i 


“But she wouldna think well if thee wastna so contrairy.” 
Lisbeth dared not venture beyond a vague phrase yet. 

“Contrairy, mother?” Adam said, looking up again in some 
anxiety. “What have I done? What dost mean?” 

“Why, thee’t never look at nothin’, nor think o’ nothin’, * 
but thy figurin’ an’ thy work,” said Lisbeth, half crying. 
“An’ dost think thee canst go on so all thy life, as if thee wast 
a man cut out o’ timber? An’ what wut do when thy mother’s 
gone, an’ nobody to take care on thee as thee gett’st a bit o’ 
victual comfortable i’ the mornin’?” io 

“What hast got i’ thy mind, mother?” said Adam, vexed 
at this whimpering. “I canna see what thee’t driving at. 

Is there anything I could do for thee as I don’t do?” 

“Ay, an’ that there is. Thee might’st do as I should ha’ 
somebody wi’ me to comfort me a bit, an’ wait on me when 15 
I’m bad, an’ be good to me.” 

“Well, mother, whose fault is it there isna some tidy body 
i’ th’ house t’ help thee? It isna by my wish as thee hast a 
stroke o’ work to do. We can afford it—I’ve told thee often 
enough. It ’ud be a deal better for us.” 20 

“Eh, what’s the use o’ talking o’ tidy bodies, when thee 
mean’st one o’ th’ wenches out o’ th’ village, or somebody 
from Treddles’on as I ne’er set eyes on i’ my life? I’d sooner 
make a shift an’ get into my own coffin afore I die nor ha’ 
them folks to put me in.” 25 

Adam was silent, and tried to go on reading. That was 
the utmost severity he could show towards his mother on a 



mightst know well enough who tis 1 a liKe t na 30 
wf me. It isna many folks I send for t’ come an’ see me, I 
reckon. An’ thee’st had the fetchin’ on her times enow.” 

“Thee mean’st Dinah, mother, I know,” said Adam. “ But 
it’s no use setting thy mind on what can’t be. If Dinah ’ud 
be willing to stay at Hayslope, it isn’t likely she can come 35 
away from her aunt’s house, where they hold her like a daugh¬ 
ter, and where she’s more bound than she is to us. If it had been 


ADAM BEDE 


542 

so that she could ha’ married Seth, that ’ud ha’ been a great 
blessing to us, but we can’t have things just as we like in this 
life. Thee must try and make up thy mind to do without her.” 

“Nay, but I canna ma’ up my mind, when she’s just cut 
5 out for thee; an’ nought shall ma’ me believe as God didna 
make her an’ send her there o’ purpose for thee. What’s it 
sinnify about her bein’ a Methody? It ’ud happen wear out 
on her wi’ marryin’.” 

Adam threw himself back in his chair and looked at his 
10 mother. He understood now what she had been aiming at 
from the beginning of the conversation. It was as unreason¬ 
able, impracticable a wish as she had ever urged, but he 
could not help being moved by so entirely new an idea. The 
chief point, however, was to chase away the notion from his 
15 mother’s mind as quickly as possible. 

“Mother,” he said, gravely, “thee’t talking wild. Don’t 
let me hear thee say such things again. It’s no good talking 
o’ what can never be. Dinah’s not for marrying; she’s fixed 
her heart on a different sort o’ life.” 

20 “Very like,” said Lisbeth, impatiently, “very like she’s 
none for marr’ing, when them as she’d be willin’ t’ marry 
wonna ax her. I shouldna ha’ been for marr’ing thy feyther 
if he’d ne’er axed me; an’ she’s as fond o’ thee as e’er I war o’ 
Thias, poor fellow.” 

25 The blood rushed to Adam’s face, and for a few moments 
he was not quite conscious where he was: his mother and the 
kitchen had vanished for him, and he saw nothing but 
Dinah’s face turned up towards his. It seemed as if there were 
a resurrection of his dead joy. But he woke up very speedily 
30 from that dream (the waking was chill and sad); for it would 
have been very foolish in him to believe his mother’s words; 
she could have no ground for them. He was prompted to 
express his disbelief very strongly—perhaps that he might call 
forth the proofs, if there were any to be offered. 

35 “What dost say such things for, mother, when thee’st got 
no foundation for ’em? Thee know’st nothing as gives thee 
a right to say that.” 


SUNDAY MORNING 


543 


“Then, I knowna nought as gi’es me a right to say as the 
year’s turned, for all I feel it fust thing when I get up i’ th’ 
morning. She isna fond o’ Seth, I reckon, is she? She doesna 
want to marry him? But I can see as she doesna behave 
tow’rt thee as she does tow’rt Seth. She makes no more o’ 5 
Seth’s coming a-nigh her nor if he war Gyp, but she’s all of a 
tremble when thee’t a-sittin’ down by her at breakfast, an’ 
a-looking at her. Thee think’st thy mother knows nought, but 
she war alive afore thee wast born.” 

“But thee canstna be sure as the trembling means love?” 10 
said Adam, anxiously. 

“Eh, what else should it mane? It isna hate, I reckon. An’ 
what should she do but love thee? Thee’t made to be loved— 
for where’s there a straighter, cliverer man? An’ what’s it 
sinnify her bein’ a Methody? It’s on’y the marigold i’ th’15 
parridge.” 

Adam had thrust his hands in his pockets, and was looking 
down at the book on the table, without seeing any of the let¬ 
ters. He was trembling like a gold-seeker, who sees the 
strong promise of gold, but sees in the same moment a sicken- 20 
ing vision of disappointment. He could not trust his mother’s 
insight; she had seen what she wished to see. And yet—and 
yet, now the suggestion had been made to him, he remem¬ 
bered so many things, very slight things, like the stirring of 
the water by an imperceptible breeze, which seemed to him 25 
some confirmation of his mother’s words. 

Lisbeth noticed that he was moved. She went on— 

“An’ thee’t find out as thee’t poorly aff when she’s gone. 
Thee’t fonder on her nor thee know’st. Thy eyes follow her 
about, welly as Gyp’s follow thee.” 30 

Adam could sit still no longer. He rose, took down his hat, 
and went out into the fields. 

The sunshine was on them: that early autumn sunshine 
which we should know was not summer’s, even if there were 
not the touches of yellow on the lime and chestnut: the Sun- 35 
day sunshine, too, which has more than autumnal calmness 
for the working man: the morning sunshine, which still leaves 


ADAM BEDE 


544 

the dew-crystals on the fine gossamer webs in the shadow of 

the bushy hedgerows. , . 

Adam needed the calm influence; he was amazed at the 
way in which this new thought of Dinah s love had taken pos- 
5 session of him, with an overmastering power that made all 
other feelings give way before the impetuous desire to know 
that the thought was true. Strange, that till that mo ™en 
the possibility of their ever being lovers had never crossed his 
mind, and yet now, all his longing suddenly went out towards 
xo that possibility; he had no more doubt or hesitation as to his 
own wishes than the bird that flies towards the opening 
through which the daylight gleams and the breath of heaven 

The autumnal Sunday sunshine soothed him; but not by 
IS preparing him with resignation to the disappointment ot his 
mother—if he himself, proved to be mistaken about Dinah. 
it soothed him by gentle encouragement of his hopes, .tier 
love was so like that calm sunshine that they seemed to make 
one presence to him, and he believed in them both alike. And 
20 Dinah was so bound up with the sad memories ot his first 
passion, that he was not forsaking them, but rather giving 
them a new sacredness by loving her. Nay, his love tor her 
had grown out of that past: it was the noon of that morning. 

But Seth? Would the lad be hurt? Hardly; for he had 
25 seemed quite contented of late, and there was no selfish 
jealousy in him; he had never been jealous of his mother s 
fondness for Adam. But had he seen anything of what their 
mother talked about? Adam longed to know this, for he 
thought he could trust Seth’s observation better than his 
3 o mother’s. He must talk to Seth before he went to see Dinah; 
and, with this intention in his mind, he walked back to the 
cottage and said to his mother— 

“ Did Seth say anything to thee about when he was coming 
home? Will he be back to dinner?” 

35 “Ay, lad; he’ll be back for a wonder. He isna gone to 
Treddles’on. He’s gone somewhere else a-preachin’ and 
a-prayin’.” 



SUNDAY MORNING 


545 


“Hast any notion which way he’s gone?” said Adam. 

“Nay, but he aften goes to th’ Common. Thee know’st 
more o’s goings nor I do.” 

Adam wanted to go and meet Seth, but he must content 
himself with walking about the near fields and getting sight 5 
of him as soon as possible. That would not be for more than 
an hour to come, for Seth would scarcely be at home much 
before their dinner-time, which was twelve o’clock. But 
Adam could not sit down to his reading again, and he saun¬ 
tered along by the brook and stood leaning against the stiles, 10 
with eager, intense eyes, which looked as if they saw some¬ 
thing very vividly; but it was not the brook or the willows, 
not the fields or the sky. Again and again his vision was in¬ 
terrupted by wonder at the strength of his own feeling, at the 
strength and sweetness of this new love—almost like the 15 
wonder a man feels at the added power he finds in himself for 
an art which he had laid aside for a space. How is it that the 
poets have said so many fine things about our first love, so 
few about our later love? Are their first poems their best? 
or are not those the best which come from their fuller thought, 20 
their larger experience, their deeper-rooted affections? The 
boy’s flute-like voice has its own spring charm; but the man 
should yield a richer, deeper music. 

At last, there was Seth, visible at the farthest stile, and 
Adam hastened to meet him. Seth was surprised, and thought 25 
something unusual must have happened: but when Adam 
came up, his face said plainly enough that it was nothing 
alarming. 

“Where hast been?” said Adam, when they were side by 
side. 30 

“I’ve been to the Common,” said Seth. “Dinah’s been 
speaking the Word to a little company of hearers at Brim¬ 
stone’s, as they call him. They’re folks as never go to church 
hardly—them on the Common—but they’ll go and hear Dinah 
a bit. She’s been speaking with power this forenoon from 35 
the words, °‘I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to 
repentance.’ And there was a little thing happened as was 


546 


ADAM BEDE 


pretty to see. The women mostly bring their children with 
’em, but to-day there was one stout curly-headed fellow about 
three or four year old, that I never saw there before. He was 
as naughty as could be at the beginning while I was praying, 
5 and while we was singing, but when we all sat down and 
Dinah began to speak, th’ young un stood stock-still all at 
once, and began to look at her with s mouth open, and pres- 
ently he ran away from’s mother and went up to Dinah, and 
pulled at her, like a little dog, for her to take notice of him. 
io So Dinah lifted him up and held th’ lad on her lap, while she 
went on speaking; and he was as good as could be till he went 
to sleep—and the mother cried to see him.” 

“It’s a pity she shouldna be a mother herself, said Adam, 
“so fond as the children are of her. Dost think she’s quite 
is fixed against marrying, Seth? Dost think nothing ’ud turn 


her?” , , , 

There was something peculiar in his brother s tone, which 
made Seth steal a glance at his face before he answered. ^ 

“It ’ud be wrong of me to say nothing ’ud turn her,” he 
20 answered. “ But if thee mean’st it about myself, I’ve given 
up all thoughts as she can ever be my wife. She calls me her 
brother, and that’s enough.” 

“ But dost think she might ever get fond enough of any¬ 
body else to be willing to marry ’em?” said Adam, rather 
25 shyly. 

“Well,” said Seth, after some hesitation, “it’s crossed my 
mind sometimes o’ late as she might; but Dinah ’ud let no 
fondness for the creature draw her out o’ the path as she 
believed God had marked out for her. If she thought the 
3 o leading was not from Him, she’s not one to be brought under 
the power of it. And she’s allays seemed clear about that— 
as her work was to minister t’ others, and make no home for 
herself i’ this world.” 

“But suppose,” said Adam, earnestly, “suppose there was 
35 a man as ’ud let her do just the same and not interfere with 
her,—she might do a good deal o’ what she does now, just 
as well when she was married as when she was single. Other 


SUNDAY MORNING 


54 7 


women of her sort have married—that’s to say, not just like 
her, but women as preached and attended on the sick and 
needy. There’s Mrs. Fletcher as she talks of.” 

A new light had broken in on Seth. He turned round, and 
laying his hand on Adam’s shoulder, said, “Why, wouldst like 5 
her to marry thee, brother?” ... ., 

Adam looked doubtfully at Seth’s inquiring eyes, and said, 
“Wouldst be hurt if she was to be fonder o’ me than o thee. 

“Nay,” said Seth, warmly, “how canst think it? Have 1 
felt thy trouble so little, that I shouldna feel thy joy ? * 

There was silence a few moments as they walked on, and 


then Seth said— . . f „ 

“I’d no notion as thee’dst ever think of her for a wite. 

“But is it o’ any use to think of her?” said Adam .what 
dost say? Mother’s made me as I hardly know where I am, is 
with what she’s been saying to me this forenoon. She says 
she’s sure Dinah feels for me more than common, and uc * 
be willing t’ have me. But I’m afraid she speaks without 
book. I want to know if thee’st seen anything. 

“It’s a nice point to speak about,” said Seth, and 1 m 20 
afraid o’ being wrong; besides, we’ve no right t mtermedd e 
with people’s feelings when they wouldn’t tell em themselves. 

“ ButTeefmightst ask her,” he said, presently. “ She took 
no offence at me for asking, and thee’st more right than i had, 
only thee’t not in the Society. But Dinah doesn t hold wi 
them as are for keeping the Society so strict to themselves. 
She doesn’t mind about making folks enter the Society, so 
as they’re fit t’ enter the kingdom o’ God. Some o the breth¬ 
ren at Treddles’on are displeased with her for that. 

“Where will she be the rest o’ the day? said Adam. „ 

“She said she shouldn’t leave the Farm again to-day, 
said Seth, “ because it’s her last Sabbath there, and she s going 
t’ read out o’ the big Bible wi’ the children. 

Adam thought-but did not say-” Then ’ll go thisafter- 3S 
noon; for if 1 go to church my thoughts ull be with her all 
the while. They must sing th’ anthem without me to-d y. 


CHAPTER LII 


ADAM AND DINAH 

It was about three o’clock when Adam entered the farm¬ 
yard and roused Alick and the dogs from their Sunday doz¬ 
ing. Alick said everybody was gone to church ‘‘but th’ young 
missis”—so he called Dinah; but this did not disappoint 
s Adam, although the “everybody” was so liberal as to include 
Nancy the dairymaid, whose works of necessity were not un- 
frequently incompatible with church-going. 

There was perfect stillness about the house: the doors 
were all closed, and the very stones and tubs seemed quieter 
io than usual. Adam heard the water gently dripping from the 
pump—that was the only sound; and he knocked at the house 
door rather softly, as was suitable in that stillness. 

The door opened, and Dinah stood before him, colouring 
deeply with the great surprise of seeing Adam at this hour, 
15 when she knew it was his regular practice to be at church. 
Yesterday he would have said to her without any difficulty, 
“ I came to see you, Dinah: I knew the rest were not at home.” 
But to-day something prevented him from saying that, and he 
put out his hand to her in silence. Neither of them spoke, and 
20 yet both wished they could speak, as Adam entered, and they sat 
down. Dinah took the chair she had just left; it was at the corner 
of the table near the window, and there was a book lying on the 
table, but it was not open: she had been sitting perfectly still, 
looking at the small bit of clear fire in the bright grate. Adam 
25 sat down opposite her, in Mr. Poyser’s three-cornered chair. 

“Your mother is not ill again, I hope, Adam?” Dinah said, 
recovering herself. “ Seth said she was well this morning.” 

“No, she’s very hearty to-day,” said Adam, happy in the 
signs of Dinah’s feeling at the sight of him, but shy. 

548 



ADAM AND DINAH 


549 


“There’s nobody at home, you see,” Dinah said: “but you’ll 
wait. You’ve been hindered from going to church to-day, 
doubtless.” 

“Yes,” Adam said, and then paused, before he added, “I 
was thinking about you: that was the reason.” 5 

This confession was very awkward and sudden, Adam felt; 
for he thought Dinah must understand all he meant. But the 
frankness of the words caused her immediately to interpret 
them into a renewal of his brotherly regrets that she was going 
away, and she answered calmly— 10 

“Do not be careful and troubled for me, Adam. I have all 
things and abound at Snowfield. And my mind is at rest, for 
I am not seeking my own will in going.” 

“But if things were different, Dinah,” said Adam, hesi¬ 
tatingly—“if you knew things that perhaps you don’t know is 
now” ... 

Dinah looked at him inquiringly, but instead of going on, 
he reached a chair and brought it near the corner of the table 
where she was sitting. She wondered, and was afraid and 
the next moment her thoughts flew to the past: was it20 
something about those distant unhappy ones that she didn t 
know? 

Adam looked at her: it was so sweet to look at her eyes, 
which had now a self-forgetful questioning in them,—for a 
moment he forgot that he wanted to say anything, or that it 25 
was necessary to tell her what he meant. 

“Dinah,” he said suddenly, taking both her hands between 
his, “I love you with my whole heart and soul. I love you 
next to God who made me.” 

Dinah’s lips became pale, like her cheeks, and she trembled 30 
violently under the shock of painful joy. Her hands were 
cold as death between Adam’s. She could not draw them 
away, because he held them fast. 

“Don’t tell me you can’t love me, Dinah. Don’t tell me 
we must part, and pass our lives away from one another.” 35 

The tears were trembling in Dinah’s eyes, and they fell 
before she could answer. But she spoke in a quiet low voice. 


55° 


ADAM BEDE 


Yes, dear Adam, we must submit to another Will. We 


must part. 

“ Not if you love me, Dinah— not if you love me, Adam said, 
passionately. “Tell me—tell me if you can love me better 
5 than a brother?” 

Dinah was too entirely reliant on the Supreme guidance 
to attempt to achieve any end by a deceptive concealment. 
She was recovering now from the first shock of emotion, 
and she looked at Adam with simple sincere eyes as she said— 
IO “Yes, Adam, my heart is drawn strongly towards you; 
and of my own will, if I had no clear showing to the con¬ 
trary, I could find my happiness in being near you, and minis¬ 
tering to you continually. I fear I should forget to rejoice 
and weep with others; nay, I fear I should forget the Divine 
is presence, and seek no love but yours. 

Adam did not speak immediately. They sat looking at 
each other in delicious silence,—for the first sense of mutual 
love excludes other feelings; it will have the soul all to 
itself. 

20 “Then, Dinah,” Adam said at last, “how can there be any¬ 
thing contrary to what's right in our belonging to one another, 
and spending our lives together? Who put this great love 
into our hearts? Can anything be holier than that? For we 
can help one another in everything as is good. I'd never think 
25 o’ putting myself between you and God, and saying you 
oughtn’t to do this, and you oughtn’t to do that. You’d 
follow your conscience as much as you do now.” 

“Yes, Adam,” Dinah said, “ I know marriage is a holy state 
for those who are truly called to it, and have no other draw- 
30 ing; but from my childhood upward I have been led towards 
another path; all my peace and my joy have come from having 
no life of my own, no wants, no wishes for myself, and living 
only in God and those of his creatures whose sorrows and 
joys He has given me to know. Those have been very 
35 blessed years to me, and I feel that if I was to listen to any 
voice that would draw me aside from that path, I should be 
turning my back on the light that has shone upon me, and 



ADAM AND DINAH 


SSI 


darkness' and doubt would take hold of me. We could not 
bless each other, Adam, if there were doubts in my soul, and 
if I yearned, when it was too late, after that better part which 
had once been given me and I had put away from me.” 

“But if a new feeling has come into your mind, Dinah, 5 
and if you love me so as to be willing to be nearer to me than 
to other people, isn’t that a sign that it’s right for you to 
change your life? Doesn’t the love make it right when noth¬ 
ing else would?” 

“Adam, my mind is full of questionings about that; for 10 
now, since you tell me of your strong love towards me, what 
was clear to me has become dark again. I felt before that 
my heart was too strongly drawn towards you, and that your 
heart was not as mine; and the thought of you had taken hold 
of me, so that my soul had lost its freedom, and was becoming 15 
enslaved to an earthly affection, which made me anxious and 
careful about what should befall myself. For in all other 
affection I had been content with any small return, or with 
none; but my heart was beginning to hunger after an equal 
love from you. And I had no doubt that I must wrestle 20 
against that as a great temptation; and the command was 
clear that I must go away.” 

“But now, dear, dear Dinah, now you know I love you 
better than you love me . . . it’s all different now. You 

won’t think o’ going: you’ll stay, and be my dear wife, and 125 
shall thank God for giving me my life as I never thanked Him 
before.” 

“Adam, it’s hard to me to turn a deaf ear . . . you 

know it’s hard; but a great fear is upon me. It seems to me 
as if you were stretching out your arms to me, and beckoning 30 
me to come and take my ease, and live for my own delight, 
and Jesus, the °Man of Sorrows, was standing looking towards 
me, and pointing to the sinful, and suffering, and afflicted. 

I have seen that again and again when I have been sitting in 
stillness and darkness, and a great terror has come upon me 35 
lest I should become hard, and a lover of self, and no more 
bear willingly the Redeemer’s cross.” 


ADAM BEDE 


552 

Dinah had closed her eyes, and a faint shudder went 
through her. “Adam,” she went on, “you wouldn’t desire 
that we should seek a good through any unfaithfulness to the 
light that is in us; you wouldn’t believe that could be a good, 
s We are of one mind in that.” 

“Yes, Dinah,” said Adam, sadly, “I’ll never be the man 
t’ urge you against your conscience. But I can’t give up the 
hope that you may come to see different. I don’t believe 
your loving me could shut up your heart; it’s only adding to 
10 what you’ve been before, not taking away from it; for it 
seems to me it’s the same with love and happiness as with 
sorrow—the more we know of it the better we can feel what 
other people’s lives are or might be, and so we shall only be 
more tender to ’em, and wishful to help ’em. The more 
15 knowledge a man has, the better he’ll do’s work; and feeling’s 
a sort o’ knowledge.” 

Dinah was silent; her eyes were fixed in contemplation of 
something visible only to herself. Adam went on presently 
with his pleading— 

20 “And you can do almost as much as you do now. I won’t 
ask you to go to church with me of a Sunday; you shall go 
where you like among the people, and teach ’em; for though 
I like church best, I don’t put my soul above yours, as if my 
words was better for you to follow than your own conscience. 
25 And you can help the sick just as much, and you’ll have more 
means o’ making ’em a bit comfortable; and you’ll be among 
all your own friends as love you, and can help ’em and be a 
blessing to ’em till their dying day. Surely, Dinah, you’d be 
as near to God as if you was living lonely and away from me.” 
30 Dinah made no answer for some time. Adam was still 
holding her hands, an$ looking at her with almost trembling 
anxiety, when she turned her grave loving eyes on his, and 
said, in rather a sad voice— 

“Adam, there is truth in what you say, and there’s many 
35 of the brethren and sisters who have greater strength than 
I have, and find their hearts enlarged by the cares of husband 
and kindred. But I have not faith that it would be so with 


ADAM AND DINAH 


553 


me, for since my affections have been set above measure on 
you, I have had less peace and joy in God; I have felt as it 
were a division in my heart. And think how it is with me, 
Adam:—that life I have led is like a land I have trodden in 
blessedness since my childhood; and if I long for a moment to 5 
follow the voice which calls me to another land that I know 
not, I cannot but fear that my soul might hereafter yearn for 
that early blessedness which I had forsaken; and where doubt 
enters there is not perfect love. I must wait for clearer guid¬ 
ance: I must go from you, and we must submit ourselves en-10 
tirely to the Divine Will. We are sometimes required to lay 
our natural, lawful affections on the altar.” 

Adam dared not plead again, for Dinah’s was not the voice 
of caprice or insincerity. But it was very hard for him: his 
eyes got dim as he looked at her. is 

“ But you may come to feel satisfied ... to feel that 
you may come to me again, and we may never part, Dinah ? ” 
“We must submit ourselves, Adam. With time, our duty 
will be made clear. It may be when I have entered on my 
former life, I shall find all these new thoughts and wishes 20 
vanish, and become as things that were not. Then I shall 
know that my calling is not towards marriage. But we must 
wait.” 

“Dinah,” said Adam, mournfully, “you can t love me so 
well as I love you, else you’d have no doubts. But it’s 25 
natural you shouldn’t; for I’m not so good as you. I can t 
doubt it’s right for me to love the best thing God’s ever given 
me to know.” 

“Nay, Adam; it seems to me that my love for you is not 
weak; for my heart waits on your words and looks, almost as 30 
a little child waits on the help and tenderness of the strong 
on whom it depends. If the thought of you took slight hold 
of me, I should not fear that it would be an idol in the temple. 
But you will strengthen me—you will not hinder me in seek¬ 
ing to obey to the uttermost.” . 35 

“Let us go out into the sunshine, Dinah, and walk to¬ 
gether. I’ll speak no word to disturb you.” 


ADAM BEDE 


554 

They went out and walked towards the fields, where they 
would meet the family coming from church. Adam said, 
“Take my arm, Dinah,” and she took it.. That was the only 
change in their manner to each other since they were last 
s walking together. But no sadness in the prospect of her going 
away—in the uncertainty of the issue—could rob the sweet¬ 
ness from Adam’s sense that Dinah loved him. He thought 
he would stay at the Hall Farm all that evening. He would 
be near her as long as he could. 

io “Heyday! there’s Adam along wi’ Dinah,” said Mr. Poy- 
ser, as he opened the far gate into the Home Close. “I 
couldna think how he happened away from church. Why,” 
added good Martin, after a moment’s pause, “what dost 
think has just jumped into my head?” 

15 “ Summat as hadna far to jump, for it’s just under our nose. 

You mean as Adam’s fond o’ Dinah.” 

“Ay! hast ever had any notion of it before?” 

“To be sure I have,” said Mrs. Poyser, who always de¬ 
clined, if possible, to be taken by surprise. “I’m not one o’ 
20 those as can see the cat i’ the dairy, an’ wonder what she’s 
come after.” 

“Thee never saidst a word to me about it.” 

“Well, I aren’t like a bird-clapper, forced to make a rattle 
when the wind blows on me. I can keep my own counsel 
2s when there’s no good i’ speaking.” 

“But Dinah ’ll ha’ none o’ him; dost think she will?” 

“Nay,” said Mrs. Poyser, not sufficiently on her guard 
against a possible surprise; “she’ll never marry anybody, if 
he isn’t a Methodist and a cripple.” 

30 “It ’ud ha’ been a pretty thing though for ’em t’ marry,” 
said Martin, turning his head on one side, as if in pleased con¬ 
templation of his new idea. “Thee’dst ha’ liked it too, 
wouldstna?” 

“Ah! I should. I should ha’ been sure of her then, as she 
35 wouldn’t go away from me to Snowfield, welly thirty mile 
off, and me not got a creatur to look to, only neighbours, as 
are no kin to me, an’ most of ’em women as I’d be ashamed to 



ADAM AND DINAH 


555 


show my face, if my dairy things war like their’n. There may 
well be streaky butter i’ the market. An’ I should be glad to 
see the poor thing settled like a Christian woman, with a 
house of her own over her head; and we’d stock her well wi’ 
linen and feathers; for I love her next to my own children. 5 
An’ she makes one feel safer when she’s i’ the house; for she’s 
like the driven snow: anybody might sin for two as had her at 
their elbow.” 

“Dinah,” said Tommy, running forward to meet her, 
“mother says you’ll never marry anybody but a Methodist 10 
cripple. What a silly you must be!” a comment which 
Tommy followed up by seizing Dinah with both arms, and 
dancing along by her side with incommodious fondness. 

“Why, Adam, we missed you i’ the singing to-day,” said 
Mr. Poyser. “How was it?” . is 

“I wanted to see Dinah: she’s going away so soon,” said 
Adam. 

“Ah, lad! can you persuade her to stop somehow? Find 
her a good husband somewhere i’ the parish. If you’ll do 
that, we’ll forgive you for missing church. But, anyway, she 2 o 
isna going before the harvest-supper o’ Wednesday, and you 
must come then. There’s Bartle Massey cornin’, an’ happen 
Craig. You’ll be sure an’ come, now, at seven? The missis 
wunna have it a bit later.” 

“Ay,” said Adam, “I’ll come if I can. But I can’t often 25 
say what I’ll do beforehand, for the work often holds me 
longer than I expect. You’ll stay till the end o’ the week, 
Dinah?” 

“Yes, yes!” said Mr. Poyser; “we’ll have no nay.” 

“ She’s no call to be in a hurry,” observed Mrs. Poyser. 30 
“Scarceness o’ victual ’ull keep: there’s no need to be hasty 
wi’ the cooking. An’ scarceness is what there’s the biggest 
stock of 1 that country.” 

Dinah smiled, but gave no promise to stay, and they talked 
of other things through the rest of the walk, lingering in the 35 
sunshine to look at the great flock of geese grazing, at the new 
corn-ricks, and at the surprising abundance of fruit on the old 


ADAM BEDE 


556 

pear-tree; Nancy and Molly having already hastened home, 
side by side, each holding, carefully wrapped in her pocket- 
handkerchief, a prayer-book, in which she could read little 
beyond the large letters and the Amens. 

5 Surely all other leisure is hurry compared with a sunny 
walk through the fields from “afternoon church,”—as such 
walks used to be in those old leisurely times, when the boat, 
gliding sleepily along the canal, was the newest locomotive 
wonder; when Sunday books had most of them old brown- 
io leather covers, and opened with remarkable precision always 
in one place. Leisure is gone—gone where the spinning-wheels 
are gone, and the pack-horses, and the slow waggons, and the 
pedlars, who brought bargains to the door on sunny after¬ 
noons. Ingenious philosophers tell you, perhaps, that the 
is great work of the steam-engine is to create leisure for man¬ 
kind. Do not believe them: it only creates a vacuum for 
eager thought to rush in. Even idleness is eager now—eager 
for amusement: prone to excursion-trains, art-museums, 
periodical-literature, and exciting novels: prone even to scien- 
20 tific theorising, and cursory peeps through microscopes. Old 
Leisure was quite a different personage: he only read one 
newspaper, innocent of leaders, and was free from that perio¬ 
dicity of sensations which we call post-time. He was a contem¬ 
plative, rather stout gentleman, of excellent digestion,—of 
2s quiet perceptions, undiseased by hypothesis: happy in his 
inability to know the causes of things, preferring the things 
themselves. He lived chiefly in the country, among pleasant 
seats and homesteads, and was fond of sauntering by the 
fruit-tree wall, and scenting the apricots when they were 
30 warmed by the morning sunshine, or of sheltering himself 
under the orchard boughs at noon, when the summer pears 
were falling. He knew nothing of week-day services, and 
thought none the worse of the Sunday sermon if it allowed 
him to sleep from the text to the blessing—liking the after- 
35 noon service best, because the prayers were the shortest, and 
not ashamed to say so; for he had an easy, jolly conscience, 
broad-backed like himself, and able to carry a great deal of 


ADAM AND DINAH 557 

beer or port-wine,—not being made squeamish by doubts and 
qualms and lofty aspirations. Life was not a task to him, but 
a sinecure: he fingered the guineas in his pocket, and ate his 
dinners, and slept the sleep of the irresponsible; for had he 
not kept up his character by going to church on the Sunday 5 
afternoons r 

Fine old Leisure! Do not be severe upon him, and judge 
him by our modern standard: he never went to °Exeter Hall, 
or heard a popular preacher, or read 0 Tracts for the Times or 
bar tor Resartus. 


CHAPTER LIII 

THE HARVEST SUPPER 


As Adam was going homewards, on Wednesday evening, 
in the six o’clock sunlight, he saw in the distance the last load 
of barley winding its way towards the yard-gate of the Hall 
Farm, and heard the chant of “Harvest Home!” rising and 
s sinking like a wave. Fainter and fainter, and more musical 
through the growing distance, the falling dying sound still 
reached him, as he neared the Willow Brook. The low 
westering sun shone right on the shoulders of the old Binton 
Hills, turning the unconscious sheep into bright spots of 
io light; shone on the windows of the cottage too, and made 
them a-fiame with a glory beyond that of amber or amethyst. 
It was enough to make Adam feel that he was in a great tem¬ 
ple, and that the distant chant was a sacred song. 

“It’s wonderful,” he thought, “how that sound goes to 
15 one’s heart almost like a funeral bell, for all it tells one o’ the 
joyfullest time o’ the year, and the time when men are mostly 
the thankfullest. I suppose it’s a bit hard to us to think any¬ 
thing’s over and gone in our lives; and there’s a parting at 
the root of all our joys. It’s like what I feel about Dinah: 
20 I should never ha’ come to know that her love ’ud be the 
greatest o’ blessings to me, if what I counted a blessing hadn’t 
been wrenched and torn away from me, and left me with a 
greater need, so as I could crave and hunger for a greater and 
a better comfort.” 

25 “He expected to see Dinah again this evening, and get 
leave to accompany her as far as Oakbourne; and then he 
would ask her to fix some time when he might go to Snowfield, 
and learn whether the last best hope that had been born to 
him must be resigned like the rest. The work he had to do 

558 


THE HARVEST SUPPER 


559 


at home, besides putting on his best clothes, made it seven 
before he was on his way again to the Hall Farm, and it was 
questionable whether, with his longest and quickest strides, 
he should be there in time even for the roast-beef, which came 
after the plum-pudding; for Mrs. Poyser’s supper would be 5 
punctual. 

Great was the clatter of knives and pewter plates and tin 
cans when Adam entered the house, but there was no hum 
of voices to this accompaniment: the eating of excellent roast- 
beef, provided free of expense, was too serious a business to 10 
those good farm-labourers to be performed with a divided 
attention, even if they had had anything to say to each other, 
—which they had not; and Mr. Poyser, at the head of the 
table, was too busy with his carving to listen to Bartle Mas¬ 
sey’s or Mr. Craig’s ready talk. is 

“Here, Adam,” said Mrs. Poyser, who was standing and 
looking on to see that Molly and Nancy did their duty as 
waiters, “here’s a place kept for you between Mr. Massey 
and the boys. It’s a poor tale you couldn’t come to see the 
pudding when it was whole.” 20 

Adam looked anxiously round for a fourth woman’s figure; 
but Dinah was not there. He was almost afraid of asking 
about her; besides, his attention was claimed by greetings, and 
there remained the hope that Dinah was in the house, though 
perhaps disinclined to festivities on the eve of her departure. 25 

It was a goodly sight—that table, with Martin Poyser’s 
round good-humoured face and large person at the head of it, 
helping his servants to the fragrant roast-beef, and pleased 
when the empty plates came again. Martin, though usually 
blest with a good appetite, really forgot to finish his own beef 30 
to-night—it was so pleasant to him to look on in the intervals 
of carving, and see how the others enjoyed their supper; for 
were they not men who, on all the days of the year except 
Christmas Day and Sundays, ate their cold dinner, in a make¬ 
shift manner, under the hedgerows, and drank their beer out 35 
of wooden bottles—with relish certainly, but with their 
mouths towards the zenith, after a fashion more endurable to 


ADAM BEDE 


560 

ducks than to human bipeds. Martin Poyser had some faint 
conception of the flavour such men must find in hot roast- 
beef and fresh-drawn ale. He held his head on one side, and 
screwed up his mouth, as he nudged Bartle Massey, and 
s watched half-witted Tom Tholer, otherwise known as “Tom 
Saft,” receiving his second plateful of beef. A grin of delight 
broke over Tom’s face as the plate was set down before 
him, between his knife and fork, which he held erect, as if 
they had been sacred tapers; but the delight was too strong 
10 to continue smouldering in a grin—it burst out the next in¬ 
stant in a long-drawn “haw, haw!” followed by a sudden 
collapse into utter gravity, as the knife and fork darted down 
on the prey. Martin Poyser’s large person shook with his 
silent unctuous laugh: he turned towards Mrs. Poyser to see 
15 if she, too, had been observant of Tom, and the eyes of hus¬ 
band and wife met in a glance of good-natured amusement. 

“Tom Saft” was a great favourite on the farm, where he 
played the part of the old jester, and made up for his practical 
deficiencies by his success in repartee. His hits, I imagine, 
20 were those of the flail, which falls quite at random, but never¬ 
theless smashes an insect now and then. They were much 
quoted at sheep-shearing and haymaking times; but I refrain 
from recording them here, lest Tom’s wit should prove to be 
like that of many other bygone jesters eminent in their day— 
25 rather of a temporary nature, not dealing with the deeper and 
more lasting relations of things. 

Tom excepted, Martin Poyser had some pride in his servants 
and labourers, thinking with satisfaction that they were the 
best worth their pay of any set on the estate. There was 
30 Kester Bale, for example (Beale, probably, if the truth were 
known, but he was called Bale, and was not conscious of any 
claim to a fifth letter),—the old man with the close leather 
cap, and the network of wrinkles on his sun-browned face. 
Was there any man in Loamshire who knew better the “na- 
35tur” of all farming work? He was one of those invaluable 
labourers who can not only turn their hand to everything, 
but excel in everything they turn their hand to. It is true 


THE HARVEST SUPPER 


561 

Kester’s knees were much bent outward by this time, and he 
walked with a perpetual curtsy, as if he were among the most 
reverent of men. And so he was; but I am obliged to admit 
that the object of his reverence was his own skill, towards 
which he performed some rather affecting acts of worship. 5 
He always thatched the ricks; for if anything were his forte 
more than another, it was thatching; and when the last touch 
had been put to the last beehive rick, Kester, whose home lay 
at some distance from the farm, would take a walk to the 
rickyard in his best clothes on a Sunday morning, and stand 10 
in the lane, at a due distance, to contemplate his own thatch¬ 
ings—walking about to get each rick from the proper point 
of"view. As he curtsied along, with his eyes upturned to the 
straw knobs imitative of golden globes at the summits of the 
beehive ricks, which indeed were gold of the best sort, you 15 
might have imagined him to be engaged in some pagan act 
of adoration. Kester was an old bachelor, and reputed to 
have stockings full of coin, concerning which his master 
cracked a joke with him every pay-night: not a new, unsea¬ 
soned joke, but a good old one, that had been tried many 20 
times before, and had worn well. “TV young measter’s a 
merry mon,” Kester frequently remarked; for having begun 
his career by frightening away the crows under the last Martin 
Poyser but one, he could never cease to account the reigning 
Martin a young master. I am not ashamed of commemorat- 25 
ino- old Kester: you and I are indebted to the hard hands of 
such men—hands that have long ago mingled with the soil 
they tilled so faithfully, thriftily making the best they could 
of the earth’s fruits, and receiving the smallest share as their 

own wages. . . 1 30 

Then, at the end of the table, opposite his master, there 
was Alick, the shepherd and head man, with the ruddy face 
and broad shoulders, not on the best terms with old Kester; 
indeed, their intercourse was confined to an occasional snarl, 
for though they probably differed little concerning hedging 35 
and ditching and the treatment of ewes, there was a profound 
difference of opinion between them as to their own respective 


ADAM BEDE 


562 

merits. When °Tityrus and Meliboeus happen to be on the 
same farm, they are not sentimentally polite to each other. 
Alick, indeed, was not by any means a honeyed man: his 
speech had usually something of a snarl in it, and his broad- 
5 shouldered aspect something of the bull-dog expression— 
“Don’t you meddle with me, and I won’t meddle with you;” 
but he was honest even to the splitting of an oat-grain rather 
than he would take beyond his acknowledged share, and as 
“close-fisted” with his master’s property as if it had been his 
10 own,—throwing very small handfuls of damaged barley to 
the chickens, because a large handful affected his imagination 
painfully with a sense of profusion. Good-tempered Tim, 
the waggoner, who loved his horses, had his grudge against 
Alick in the matter of corn: they rarely spoke to each other, 
is and never looked at each other, even over their dish of cold 
potatoes; but then, as this was their usual mode of behaviour 
towards all mankind, it would be an unsafe conclusion that 
they had more than transient fits of unfriendliness. The 
bucolic character at Hayslope, you perceive, was not of that 
20 entirely genial, merry, broad-grinning sort, apparently ob¬ 
served in most districts visited by artists. The mild radiance 
of a smile was a rare sight on a field-labourer’s face, and there 
was seldom any gradation between bovine gravity and a 
laugh. Nor was every labourer so honest as our friend Alick. 
25 At this very table, among Mr. Poyser’s men, there is that big 
Ben Tholoway, a very powerful thresher, but detected more 
than once in carrying away his master’s corn in his pockets: 
an action which, as Ben was not a philosopher, could hardly 
be ascribed to absence of mind. However, his master had 
30 forgiven him, and continued to employ him; for the Tholo- 
ways had lived on the Common, time out of mind, and had 
always worked for the Poysers. And on the whole, I daresay, 
society was not much the worse because Ben had not six 
months of it at the tread-mill; for his views of depredation 
35 were narrow, and the House of Correction might have en¬ 
larged them. As it was, Ben ate his roast-beef to-night with 
a serene sense of having stolen nothing more than a few peas 


THE HARVEST SUPPER 


5^3 

and beans as seed for his garden, since the last harvest-supper, 
and felt warranted in thinking that Alick’s suspicious eye, for 
ever upon him, was an injury to his innocence. 

But now the roast-beef was finished and the cloth was drawn, 
leaving a fair large deal table for the bright drinking-cans, and 5 
the foaming brown jugs, and the bright brass candlesticks, 
pleasant to behold. Now , the great ceremony of the evening 
was to begin—the harvest-song, in which every man must 
join: he might be in tune, if he liked to be singular, but he must 
not sit with closed lips. The movement was obliged to be in 10 
triple time; the rest was °ad libitum. 

As to the origin of this song—whether it came in its actual 
state from the brain of a single rhapsodist, or was gradually 
perfected by a school or succession of rhapsodists, I am ig¬ 
norant. There is a stamp of unity, of individual genius upon is 
it, which inclines me to the former hypothesis, though I am 
not blind to the consideration that this unity may rather have 
arisen from that consensus of many minds which was a condi¬ 
tion of primitive thought, foreign to our modern conscious¬ 
ness. Some will perhaps think that they detect in the first 20 
quatrain an indication of a lost line, which later rhapsodists, 
failing in imaginative vigour, have supplied by the feeble 
device of iteration: others, however, may rather maintain 
that this very iteration is an original felicity, to which none 
but the most prosaic minds can be insensible. 25 

The ceremony connected with the song was a drinking 
ceremony. (That is perhaps a painful fact, but then, you 
know, we cannot reform our forefathers.) During the first and 
second quatrain, sung decidedly °forte, no can was filled. 

“Here’s a health unto our master, 

The founder of the feast; 

Here’s a health unto our master 
And to our mistress! 

And may his doings prosper, 

Whate’er he takes in hand, 

For we are all his servants, 

And are at his command.” 


35 


ADAM BEDE 


564 

But now, immediately before the third quatrain or chorus, 
sung 0 fortissimo, with emphatic raps of the table, which gave 
the effect of cymbals and drum together, Alick’s can was filled, 
and he was bound to empty it before the chorus ceased. 

5 “Then drink, boys, drink! 

And see ye do not spifl, 

For if he do, ye shall drink two, 

For ’tis our master’s will.” 

When Alick had gone successfully through this test of steady- 
10 handed manliness, it was the turn of old Kester, at his right 
hand,—and so on, till every man had drunk his initiatory pint 
under the stimulus of the chorus. Tom Saft—the rogue— 
took care to spill a little by accident; but Mrs. Poyser (too 
officiously, Tom thought) interfered to prevent the exaction 
is of the penalty. 

To any listener outside the door it would have been the 
reverse of obvious why the “Drink, boys, drink!” should have 
such an immediate and often-repeated encore; but once en¬ 
tered, he would have seen that all faces were at present sober, 
20 and most of them serious: it was the regular and respectable 
thing for those excellent farm-labourers to do, as much as 
for elegant ladies and gentlemen to smirk and bow over their 
wine-glasses. Bartle Massey, whose ears were rather sensi¬ 
tive, had gone out to see what sort of evening it was, at an 
25 early stage in the ceremony; and had not finished his contem¬ 
plation until a silence of five minutes declared that “Drink, 
boys, drink!” was not likely to begin again for the next 
twelvemonth. Much to the regret of the boys and Totty: on 
them the stillness fell rather flat, after that glorious thumping 
30 of the table, towards which Totty, seated on her father’s 
knee, contributed with her small might and small fist. 

When Bartle re-entered, however, there appeared to be a 
general desire for solo music after the choral. Nancy declared 
that Tim the waggoner knew a song and was “allays singing 
35 like a lark i’ the stable;” whereupon Mr. Poyser said en¬ 
couragingly, “Come, Tim, lad, let’s hear it,” Tim looked 


THE HARVEST SUPPER 


565 


sheepish, tucked down his head, and said he couldn’t sing; 
but this encouraging invitation of the master’s was echoed all 
round the table. It was a conversational opportunity: every¬ 
body could say, “Come, Tim,”—except Alick, who never 
relaxed into the frivolity of unnecessary speech. At last, 5 
Tim’s next neighbour, Ben Tholoway, began to give emphasis 
to his speech by nudges, at which Tim, growing rather savage, 
said, “Let me alooan, will ye? else I’ll ma’ ye sing a toon ye 
wonna like.” A good-tempered waggoner’s patience has 
limits, and Tim was not to be urged further. 10 

“Well, then, David, ye’re the lad to sing,” said Ben, willing 
to show that he was not discomfited by this check. Sing 
‘My loove’s a roos wi’out a thorn.’ ” 

The amatory David was a young man of an unconscious 
abstracted expression, which was due probably to a squint of 15 
superior intensity rather than to any mental characteristic; 
for he was not indifferent to Ben’s invitation, but blushed and 
laughed and rubbed his sleeve over his mouth in a way that 
was regarded as a symptom of yielding. And for some time 
the company appeared to be much in earnest about the desire 20 
to hear David’s song. But in vain. The lynsm of the even¬ 
ing was in the cellar at present, and was not to be drawn from 

that retreat just yet. # ,, , , 

Meanwhile the conversation at the head or the table had 
taken a political turn. Mr. Craig was not above talking poll- 25 
tics occasionally,though he piqued himself rather on a wise 
insight than on specific information. He saw so far beyond the 
mere facts of a case, that really it was superfluous to know 

T*m nn rf^der o’ the naner myself,” he observed to-night, 30 



ADAM BEDE 


566 


bottom on’t. ‘Why, Lor’ bless you, Mills/ says I, ‘you see no 
more into this thing nor you can see into the middle of a 
potato. I’ll tell you what it is: you think it’ll be a fine thing 
for the country; and I’m not again’ it—mark my words—I’m 
s not again’ it. But it’s my opinion as there’s them at the head 
o’ this country as are worse enemies to us nor Bony and all 
the °mounseers he’s got at’s back; for as for the mounseers, 
you may skewer half-a-dozen of ’em at once as if they war 
frogs.’ ” 

10 “Ay, ay,” said Martin Poyser, listening with an air of much 
intelligence and edification, “they ne’er ate a bit o’ beef i’ 
their lives. Mostly sallet, I reckon.” 

“And says I to Mills,” continued Mr. Craig, “ ‘Will you 
try to make me believe as furriners like them can do us half 
is th’ harm them ministers do with their bad government? If 
°King George ’ud turn ’em all away and govern by himself, 
he’d see everything righted. He might take on °Billy Pitt 
again if he liked; but °I don’t see myself what we want wi’ 
anybody besides King and Parliament. It’s that nest o’ 
20 ministers does the mischief, I tell you.’ ” 

“Ah, it’s fine talking,” observed Mrs. Poyser, who was 
now seated near her husband, with Totty on her lap—“it’s fine 
talking. It’s hard work to tell which is Old Harry when 
everybody’s got boots on.” 

25 “As for this peace,” said Mr. Poyser, turning his head on 
one side in a dubitative manner, and giving a precautionary 
puff to his pipe between each sentence, “I don’t know. Th’ 
war’s a fine thing for the country, an’ how’ll you keep up 
prices wi’out it? An’ them French are a wicked sort o’ folks, 
30 by what I can make out; what can you do better nor fight 
’em?” 

“Ye’re partly right there, Poyser,” said Mr. Craig, “but 
I’m not again’ the peace—to make a holiday for a bit. We can 
break it when we like, an’ I'm in no fear o’ Bony, for all they 
35 talk so much o’ his cliverness. That’s what I says to Mills 
this morning. Lor’ bless you, he sees no more through Bony! 
. . . why, I put him up to more in three minutes than he 




THE HARVEST SUPPER 


567 

gets front’s paper all the year round. Says I, ‘Am I a gardener 
as knows his business, or arn’t I, Mills? answer me that/ 
‘To be sure y’ are, Craig/ says he—he’s not a bad fellow, 
Mills isn’t, for a butler, but weak i’ the head. ‘Well/ says I, 
‘you talk o’ Bony’s cliverness; would it be any use my beings 
a first-rate gardener if I’d got nought but a quagmire to work 
on?’ ‘No/ says he. ‘Well/ I says, ‘that’s just what it is wi’ 
Bony. I’ll not deny but he may be a bit diver—°he’s no 
Frenchman born, as I understand; but what’s he got at’s 
back but mounseers?’” 10 

Mr. Craig paused a moment with an emphatic stare after 
this triumphant specimen of °Socratic argument, and then 
added, thumping the table rather fiercely— 

“Why, it’s a sure thing—and there’s them ’ull bear wit¬ 
ness to’t—as i’ one regiment where there was one man a-miss- is 
ing, they put the regimentals on a big monkey, and they fit 
him as the shell fits the walnut, and you couldn’t tell the 
monkey from the mounseers!” 

“Ah! think o’ that, now!” said Mr. Poyser, impressed 
at once with the political bearings of the fact, and with its 20 
striking interest as an anecdote in natural history. 

“Come, Craig,” said Adam, “that’s a little too strong. 
You don’t believe that. It’s all nonsense about the French 
being such poor sticks. Mr. Irwine’s seen ’em in their own 
country, and he says they’ve plenty o’ fine fellows among ’em. 25 
And as for knowledge, and contrivances, and manufactures, 
there’s a many things as we’re a fine sight behind ’em in. 
It’s poor foolishness to run down your enemies. Why, Nelson 
and the rest of ’em ’ud have no merit i’ beatin’ ’em, if they 
were such offal as folks pretend.” 30 

Mr. Poyser looked doubtfully at Mr. Craig, puzzled by 
this opposition of authorities. Mr. Irwine’s testimony was 
not to be disputed; but, on the other hand, Craig was a 
knowing fellow, and his view was less startling. Martin had 
never “heard tell” of the French being good for much. Mr. 35 
Craig had found no answer but such as was implied in taking 
a long draught of ale, and then looking down fixedly at the 


ADAM BEDE 


568 

proportions of his own leg, which he turned a little outward 
for that purpose, when Bartle Massey returned from the fire¬ 
place, where he had been smoking his first pipe in quiet, and 
broke the silence by saying, as he thrust his forefinger into 

s the canister— ,11 

“Why, Adam, how happened you not to be at church on 

Sunday? answer me that, you rascal. The anthem went 
limping without you. Are you going to disgrace your school¬ 
master in his old age?” 

10 “No, Mr. Massey,” said Adam. Mr. and Mrs. ^Poyser 
can tell you where I was. I was in no bad company. 

“ She’s gone, Adam—gone to Snowfield,” said Mr. Poyser, 
reminded of Dinah for the first time this evening. “ I thought 
you’d ha’ persuaded her better. Nought ud hold her, but 
is she must go yesterday forenoon. The missis has hardly got 
over it. I thought she’d ha’ no sperrit for th’ harvest supper. 

Mrs. Poyser had thought of Dinah several^ times since 
Adam had come in, but she had had “no heart” to mention 
the bad news. 

20 “What!” said Bartle, with an air of disgust. Was there 
a woman concerned? Then I give you up, Adam.” 

“But it’s a woman you’n spoke well on, Bartle,” said Mr. 
Poyser. “Come, now, you canna draw back; you said^ once 
as women wouldna ha’ been a bad invention if they d all 
25 been like Dinah.” . „ 

“I meant her voice, man—I meant her voice, that was all, 
said Bartle. “I can bear to hear her speak without wanting 
to put wool in my ears. As for other things, I daresay she’s 
like the rest o’ the women—thinks two and two ’Income to 
30 make five, if she cries and bothers enough about it.” 

“Ay, ay!” said Mrs. Poyser; “one ’ud think, an’ hear some 
folks talk, as the men war ’cute enough to count the corns in 
a bag o’ wheat wi’ only smelling at it. They can see through 
a barn-door, they can. Perhaps that’s the reason they can 
35 see so little o’ this side on’t.” 

Martin Poyser shook with delighted laughter, and winked 
at Adam, as much as to say the schoolmaster was in for it now. 



THE HARVEST SUPPER 


569 

“Ah!” said Bartle, sneeringly, “the women are quick 
enough—they’re quick enough. They know the rights of a 
story before they hear it, and can tell a man what his thoughts 
are before he knows ’em himself.” 

“Like enough,” said Mrs. Poyser; “for the men are mostly 5 
so slow, their thoughts overrun ’em, an’ they can only catch 
’em by the tail. I can count a stocking-top while a man’s 
getting’s tongue ready; an’ when he outs wi’ his speech at 
last, there’s little broth to be made on’t. It’s your dead 
chicks take the longest hatchin’. Howiver, I’m not denyin’ the 10 
women are foolish: God Almighty made ’em to match the men.” 

“Match!” said Bartle; “ay, as vinegar matches one’s teeth. 

If a man says a word, his wife ’ll match it with a contradic¬ 
tion; if he’s a mind for hot meat, his wife ’ll match it with 
cold bacon; if he laughs, she’ll match him with whimpering. 15 
She’s such a match as the horse-fly is to th’ horse: she’s got 
the right venom to sting him with—the right venom to sting 
him with.” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Poyser, “I know what the men like— 
a poor soft, as ’ud simper at ’em like the pictur o’ the sun 20 
whether they did right or wrong, an’ say thank you for a 
kick’, an’ pretend she didna know which end she stood upper¬ 
most, till her husband told her. That’s what a man wants in 
a wife, mostly; he wants to make sure o’ one fool as ’ull tell 
him he’s wise. But there’s some men can do wi’out that— 25 
they think so much o’ themselves a’ready; an’ that’s how it 
is there’s old bachelors.” 

“Come, Craig,” said Mr. Poyser, jocosely, “you mun get 
married pretty quick, else you’ll be set down for an old 
bachelor; an’ you see what the women ’ull think on you.” 30 

“Well,” said Mr. Craig, willing to conciliate Mrs. Poyser, 
and setting a high value on his own compliments, “/ like a 
cleverish woman—a woman o’ sperrit—a managing woman.” 

“You’re out there, Craig,” said Bartle, dryly; “you’re out 
there. You judge o’ your garden-stuff on a better plan than 35 
that: you pick the things for what they can excel in—for what 
they can excel in. You don’t value your peas for their roots. 


570 


ADAM BEDE 


or your carrots for their flowers. Now, that’s the way you 
should choose women: their cleverness ’ll never come to much 
—never come to much; but they make excellent simpletons, 

ripe and strong-flavoured.’’ . 

5 “What dost say to that?” said Mr. Poyser, throwing him¬ 
self back and looking merrily at his wife. 

“Say!” answered Mrs. Poyser, with dangerous hre kindling 
in her eye; “why, I say as some folks’ tongues are like the 
clocks as run on strikin’, not to tell you the time o the day, 
io but because there’s summat wrong i’ their own inside . . . 

Mrs. Poyser would probably have brought her rejoinder to 
a further climax, if every one’s attention had not at this 
moment been called to the outer end of the table, where the 
lyrism, which had at first only manifested itself by David s 
is°sotto voce performance of “My love’s a rose without a thorn, 
had gradually assumed a rather deafening and complex char¬ 
acter. Tim, thinking slightly of David’s vocalisation, was 
impelled to supersede that feeble buzz by a spirited com¬ 
mencement of “Three Merry Mowers;” but David was not 
so to be put down so easily, and showed himself capable of a cop¬ 
ious crescendo, which was rendering it doubtful whether the 
rose would not predominate over the mowers, when old Kes- 
ter, with an entirely unmoved and immovable aspect, sud¬ 
denly set up a quavering treble,—as if he had been an alarum, 
25 and the time was come for him to go off. 

The company at Alick’s end of the table took this form of 
vocal entertainment very much as a matter of course, being 
free from musical prejudices; but Bartle Massey laid down 
his pipe and put his fingers in his ears; and Adam, who had 
30 been longing to go, ever since he had heard Dinah was not 
in the house, rose and said he must bid good-night. 

“I’ll go with you, lad,” said Bartle; “I’ll go with you before 
my ears are split.” 

“I’ll go round by the Common, and see you home, if you 
35 like, Mr. Massey,” said Adam. , 

“Ay, ay!” said Bartle; “then we can have a bit o talk 
together. I never get hold of you now.” 


THE HARVEST SUPPER 


571 

“Eh! it’s a pity but you’d sit it out,” said Martin Poy- 
ser. “They’ll all go soon; for th’ missis niver lets ’em stay 
past ten.” 

But Adam was resolute, so the good-nights were said, and 
the two friends turned out on their starlight walk together. 5 

“There’s that poor fool, Vixen, whimpering for me at 
home,” said Bartle. “I can never bring her here with me for 
fear she should be struck with Mrs. Poyser’s eye, and the 
poor bitch might go limping for ever after.” 

“I’ve never any need to drive Gyp back,” said Adam, 10 
laughing. “He always turns back of his own head when he 
finds out I’m coming here.” 

“Ay, ay,” said Bartle. “A terrible woman!—made of 
needles—made of needles. But I stick to Martin I shall 
always stick to Martin. And he likes the needles, God help 15 

him! He’s a cushion made on purpose for’em.” 

“ But she’s a downright good-natur’d woman, for all that, 
said Adam, “and as true as the daylight.^ She’s a bit cross 
wi’ the dogs when they offer to come in th’ house, but if they 
depended on her, she’d take care and have ’em well fed. If 20 
her tongue’s keen, her heart’s tender: I’ve seen that in times 
o’ trouble. She’s one o’ those women as are better than their 

word.” . , j 

“Well, well,” said Bartle, “I don’t say th apple isn t sound 
at the core; but it sets my teeth on edge it sets my teeth on 25 
edge.” 


CHAPTER LIV 

THE MEETING ON THE HILL 

Adam understood Dinah’s haste to go away, and drew 
hope rather than discouragement from it. She was fearful 
lest the strength of her feeling towards him should hinder her 
from waiting and listening faithfully for the ultimate guiding 
5 voice from within. 

“I wish I’d asked her to write to me, though,” he thought. 
“And yet even that might disturb her a bit, perhaps. She 
wants to be quite quiet in her old way for a while. And I’ve 
no right to be impatient and interrupting her with my wishes, 
io She’s told me what her mind is; and she’s not a woman to say 
one thing and mean another. I’ll wait patiently.” 

That was Adam’s wise resolution, and it throve excellently 
for the first two or three weeks on the nourishment it got from 
the remembrance of Dinah’s confession that Sunday after- 
15 noon. There is a wonderful amount of sustenance in the 
first few words of love. But towards the middle of October 
the resolution began to dwindle perceptibly, and showed 
dangerous symptoms of exhaustion. The weeks were unusu¬ 
ally long: Dinah must surely have had more than enough time 
20 to make up her mind. Let a woman say what she will after 
she has once told a man that she loves him, he is a little too 
flushed and exalted with that first draught she offers him to 
care much about the taste of the second: he treads the earth 
with a very elastic step as he walks away from her, and makes 
25 light of all difficulties. But that sort of glow dies out: memory 
gets sadly diluted with time, and is not strong enough to 
revive us. Adam was no longer so confident as he had been: 
he began to fear that perhaps Dinah’s old life would have too 
strong a grasp upon her for any new feeling to triumph. If 

572 


THE MEETING ON THE HILL 


573 


she had not felt this, she would surely have written to him 
to give him some comfort; but it appeared that she held it 
right to discourage him. As Adam’s confidence waned, his 
patience waned with it and he thought he must write himself; 
he must ask Dinah not to leave him in painful doubt longer 5 
than was needful. He sat up late one night to write her a 
letter, but the next morning he burnt it, afraid of its effect. 

It would be worse to have a discouraging answer by letter 
than from her own lips, for her presence reconciled him to her 
will. # . 10 

You perceive how it was: Adam was hungering for the sight 
of Dinah; and when that sort of hunger reaches a certain 
stage, a lover is likely to still it though he may have to put his 
future in pawn. 

But what harm could he do by going to Snowfield ? Dinah 15 
could not be displeased with him for it: she had not forbidden 
him to go: she must surely expect that he would go before long. 
By the second Sunday in October this view of the case had 
become so clear to Adam, that he was already on his way to 
Snowfield; on horseback this time, for his hours were precious 20 
now, and he had borrowed Jonathan Burge’s good nag for the 
journey. 

What keen memories went along the road with him! He 
had often been to Oakbourne and back since that first journey 
to Snowfield, but beyond Oakbourne the grey stone walls, 25 
the broken country, the meagre trees, seemed to be telling him 
afresh the story of that painful past which he knew so well by 
heart. But no story is the same to us after a lapse of time; 
or rather, we who read it are no longer the same interpreters: 
and Adam this morning brought with him new thoughts 30 
through that grey country—thoughts which gave an altered 
significance to its story of the past. 

That is a base and selfish, even a blasphemous, spirit, which 
rejoices and is thankful over the past evil that has blighted 
or crushed another, because it has been made a source of un- 35 
foreseen good to ourselves: Adam could never cease to mourn 
over that mystery of human sorrow which had been brought 


ADAM BEDE 


574 

so close to him: he could never thank God for another’s 
misery. And if I were capable of that narrow-sighted joy in 
Adam’s behalf, I should still know he was not the man to feel 
it for himself: he would have shaken his head at such a senti- 
s ment, and said, “Evil’s evil, and sorrow’s sorrow, and you 
can’t alter it’s natur by wrapping it up in other words. Other 
folks were not created for my sake, that I should think all 
square when things turn out well for me. 

But it is not ignoble to feel that the fuller life which a sad 
io experience has brought us is worth our own personal share of 
pain: surely it is not possible to feel otherwise, any more than 
it would be possible for a man with cataract to regret the pain¬ 
ful process by which his dim blurred sight of men as trees walk¬ 
ing had been exchanged for clear outline and effulgent day. 
15 The growth of higher feeling within us is like the growth of 
faculty, bringing with it a sense of added strength: we can no 
more wish to return to a narrower sympathy, than a painter 
or a musician can wish to return to his cruder manner, or a 
philosopher to his less complete formula. 

20 Something like this sense of enlarged being was in Adam’s 
mind this Sunday morning, as he rode along in vivid recollec¬ 
tion of the past. His feeling towards Dinah, the hope of 
passing his life with her, had been the distant unseen point 
towards which that hard journey from Snowfield eighteen 
25 months ago had been leading him. Tender and deep as his 
love for Hetty had been—so deep that the roots of it would 
never be torn away—his love for Dinah was better and more 
precious to him; for it was the outgrowth of that fuller life 
which had come to him from his acquaintance with deep 
30 sorrow. “It’s like as if it was a new strength to me,” he said 
to himself, “to love her, and know as she loves me. I shall 
look t’ her to help me to see things right. For she’s better 
than I am—there’s less o’ self in her, and pride. And it’s a 
feeling as gives you a sort o’ liberty, as if you could walk 
35 more fearless, when you’ve more trust in another than y’ have 
in yourself. I’ve always been thinking I knew better than 
them as belonged to me, and that’s a poor sort o’ life, when 


THE MEETING ON THE HILL 


575 


you can’t look to them nearest to you t help you with a bit 
better thought than what you’ve got inside you a ready. 

It was more than two o’clock in the afternoon when Adam 
came in sight of the grey town on the hill-side, and looked 
searchingly towards the green valley below, for the hrst 5 
glimpse of the old thatched roof near the ugly red mill Ihe 
scene looked less harsh in the soft October sunshine than it 
had done in the eager time of early spring; and the one grand 
charm it possessed in common with all wide-stretching wood¬ 
less regions—that it filled you with a new consciousness ol 10 
the overarching sky-had a milder more soothing influence 
than usual, on this almost cloudless day. Adam s doubts and 
fears melted under this influence as the delicate web-like 
clouds had gradually melted away into the clear blue above 
him. He seemed to see Dinah’s gentle face assuring him, with i 5 
its looks alone, of all he longed to know. 

He did not expect Dinah to be at home at this hour, but he 
got down from his horse and tied it at bttle gate, that he 
might ask where she was gone to-day. He had set his mind 
on following her and bringing her home. She was gone to 2Q 
Sloman’s End, a hamlet about three miles off, over the hill, 
the old woman told him: had set off directly after morning 
chapel, to preach in a cottage there, as her habit was. Any¬ 
body at the town would tell him the way to Sloman s End 
So Adam got on his horse again and rode to the town, putti g 25 
up at the old inn, and taking a hasty dinner there in the com¬ 
pany of the too chatty landlord, from whose friendly questions 
and^reminiscences he was glad to escape as soon as possible, 
and set out towards Sloman’s End. With all his haste it was 
nearly four o’clock before he could set off, and he thought that 30 
as Dfnah had gone so early, she would perhaps already be 
near returning. The little, grey, desolate- 
screened by sheltering trees, lay in sight long before he reached 
it and as he came near he could hear the sound of voices sing¬ 
ing a hymn. “ Perhaps that’s the last hymn before they come 35 
away, Adam thought: “I'll walk back a bit, and-turn again 
to meet her, further off the village. He walked back he 


ADAM BEDE 


576 

got nearly to the top of the hill again, and seated himself on 
a loose stone, against the low wall, to watch till he should see 
the little black figure leaving the hamlet and winding up the 
hill. He chose this spot, almost at the top of the hill, because 
s it was away from all eyes—no house, no cattle, not even a nib¬ 
bling sheep near—no presence but the still lights and shadows, 
and the great embracing sky. 

She was much longer coming than he expected: he waited 
an hour at least watching for her and thinking of her, while 
10 the afternoon shadows lengthened, and the light grew softer. 
At last he saw the little black figure coming from between the 
grey houses, and gradually approaching the foot of the hill. 
Slowly, Adam thought; but Dinah was really walking at her 
usual pace, with a light quiet step. Now she was beginning 
is to wind along the path up the hill, but Adam would not move 
yet: he would not meet her too soon; he had set his heart on 
meeting her in this assured loneliness. And now he began 
to fear lest he should startle her too much; “Yet,” he thought, 
“she’s not one to be overstartled; she’s always so calm and 
20 quiet, as if she was prepared for anything.” 

What was she thinking of as she wound up the hill? Per¬ 
haps she had found complete repose without him, and had 
ceased to feel any need of his love. On the verge of a decision 
we all tremble: hope pauses with fluttering wings. 

25 But now at last she was very near, and Adam rose from the 
stone wall. It happened that just as he walked forward, 
Dinah had paused and turned round to look back at the village: 
who does not pause and look back in mounting a hill? Adam 
was glad; for, with the fine instinct of a lover, he felt that it 
30 would be best for her to hear his voice before she saw him. He 
came within three paces of her and then said, “Dinah!” She 
started without looking round, as if she connected the 
sound with no place. “Dinah!” Adam said again. He knew 
quite well what was in her mind. She was so accustomed 
35 to think of impressions as purely spiritual monitions, that 
she looked for no material visible accompaniment of the 
voice. 


THE MEETING ON THE HILL 


577 


But this second time she looked round. What a look of 
yearning love it was that the mild eyes turned on the strong 
dark-eyed man! She did not start again at the sight of him; 
she said nothing, but moved towards him so that his arm could 
clasp her round. s 

And they walked on so in silence, while the warm tears 
fell. Adam was content, and said nothing. It was Dinah who 
spoke first. 

“Adam,” she said, “it is the Divine Will. My soul is so 
knit to yours that it is but a divided life I live without you. io 
And this moment, now you are with me, and I feel that our 
hearts are filled with the same love, I have a fulness of strength 
to bear and do our heavenly Father’s Will, that I had lost 
before.” 

Adam paused and looked into her sincere eyes. 15 

“Then we’ll never part any more, Dinah, till death parts 
us.” 

And they kissed each other with a deep joy. 

What greater thing is there for two human souls, than to 
feel that they are joined for life—to strengthen each other in 20 
all labour, to rest on each other in all sorrow, to minister to 
each other in all pain, to be one with each other in silent un¬ 
speakable memories at the moment of the last parting? 


CHAPTER LV 


MARRIAGE BELLS 

In little more than a month after that meeting on the hill— 
on a °rimy morning in departing November—°Adam and 
Dinah were married. 

It was an event much thought of in the village. All Mr. 

5 Burge’s men had a holiday, and all Mr. Poyser’s; and most of 
those who had a holiday appeared in their best clothes at the 
wedding. I think there was hardly an inhabitant of Hayslope 
specially mentioned in this history and still resident in the 
parish on this November morning, who was not either in 
io church to see Adam and Dinah married, or near the church 
door to greet them as they came forth. Mrs. Irwine and her 
daughters were waiting at the churchyard gates in their car¬ 
riage (for they had a carriage now) to shake hands with the 
bride and bridegroom, and wish them well; and in the absence 
is of Miss Lydia Donnithorne at Bath, Mrs. Best, Mr. Mills, 
and Mr. Craig had felt it incumbent on them to represent 
“the family” at the Chase on the occasion. The churchyard 
walk was quite lined with familiar faces, many of them faces 
that had first looked at Dinah when she preached on the 
20 Green; and no wonder they showed this eager interest on her 
marriage morning, for nothing like Dinah and the history 
which had brought her and Adam Bede together had been 
known at Hayslope within the memory of man. 

Bessy Cranage, in her neatest cap and frock, was crying, 
25 though she did not exactly know why; for, as her cousin 
Wiry Ben, who stood near her, judiciously suggested, Dinah 
was not going away, and if Bessy was in low spirits, the best 
thing for her to do was to follow Dinah’s example, and marry 
an honest fellow who was ready to have her. Next to Bessy, 

578 


MARRIAGE BELLS 


579 


just within the church door, there were the Poyser children, 
peeping round the corner of the pews to get a sight of the 
mysterious ceremony; Totty’s face wearing an unusual air 
of anxiety at the idea of seeing cousin Dinah come back look¬ 
ing rather old, for in Totty’s experience no married people 5 
were young. 

I envy them all the sight they had when the marriage was 
fairly ended and Adam led Dinah out of church. She was 
not in black this morning; for her aunt Poyser would by no 
means allow such a risk of incurring bad luck, and had herself 10 
made a present of the wedding dress, °made all of grey, though 
in the usual Quaker form, for on this point Dinah could not 
give way. So the lily face looked out with sweet gravity from 
under a grey Quaker bonnet, neither smiling nor blushing, 
but with lips trembling a little under the weight of solemn 15 
feelings. Adam, as he pressed her arm to his side, walked 
with his old erectness and his head thrown rather backward 
as if to face all the world better; but it was not because he 
was particularly proud this morning, as is the wont of bride¬ 
grooms, for his happiness was of a kind that had little refer- 20 
ence to men’s opinion of it. There was a tinge of sadness in 
his deep joy; Dinah knew it, and did not feel aggrieved. 

There were three other couples, following the bride and 
bridegroom: first, Martin Poyser, looking as cheery as a 
bright fire on this rimy morning, led quiet Mary Burge, the 25 
bridesmaid; then came Seth serenely happy, with Mrs. Poy¬ 
ser on his arm; and last of all Bartle Massey, with Lisbeth— 
Lisbeth in a new gown and bonnet, too busy with her pride 
in her son, and her delight in possessing the one daughter she 
had desired, to devise a single pretext for complaint. 30 

Bartle Massey had consented to attend the wedding at 
Adam’s earnest request, under protest against marriage in 
general, and the marriage of a sensible man in particular. 
Nevertheless, Mr. Poyser had a joke against him after the 
wedding dinner, to the effect that in the vestry he had given 35 
the bride one more kiss than was necessary. 

Behind this last couple came Mr. Irwine, glad at heart over 


ADAM BEDE 


580 

this good morning’s work of joining Adam and Dinah. For 
he had seen Adam in the worst moments of his sorrow; and 
what better harvest from that painful seed-time could there 
be than this? The love that had brought hope and comfort in 
5 the hour of despair, the love that had found its way to the 
dark prison cell and to poor Hetty’s darker soul—this strong, 
gentle love was to be Adam’s companion and helper till death. 
b There was much shaking of hands mingled with ‘‘God bless 
you’s,” and other good wishes to the four couples, at the 
10 church-yard gate, Mr. Poyser answering for the rest with un¬ 
wonted vivacity of tongue, for he had all the appropriate 
wedding-day jokes at his command. And the women, he 
observed, could never do anything but put finger in eye at a 
wedding. Even Mrs. Poyser could not trust herself to speak 
15 as the neighbours shook hands with her and Lisbeth began to 
cry in the face of the very first person who told her she was 
getting young again. 

Mr. Joshua Rann, having a slight touch of rheumatism, 
did not join in the ringing of the bells this morning, and, 
20 looking on with some contempt at these informal greetings 
which required no official co-operation from the clerk, began 
to hum in his musical bass, °“Oh what a joyful thing it is,” 
by way of preluding a little to the effect he intended to produce 
in the wedding psalm next Sunday. 

25 “That’s a bit of good news to cheer Arthur,” said Mr. Ir- 
wine to his mother, as they drove off. “I shall write to him 
the first thing when we get home.” 


EPILOGUE 

It is near the end of June, in 1807. The workshops have 
been shut up half an hour or more in Adam Bede’s timber- 
yard, which used to be Jonathan Burge’s, and the mellow 
evening light is falling on the pleasant house with the buff 
walls and the soft grey thatch, very much as it did when we 5 
saw Adam bringing in the keys on that June evening nine 
years ago. 

There is a figure we know well, just come out of the house, 
and shading her eyes with her hands as she looks for something 
in the distance; for the rays that fall on her white borderless 10 
cap and her pale auburn hair are very dazzling. But now she 
turns away from the sunlight and looks towards the door. 

We can see the sweet pale face quite well now: it is scarcely 
at all altered—only a little fuller, to correspond to her more 
matronly figure, which still seems light and active enough in 15 
the plain black dress. 

“I see him, Seth,” Dinah said, as she looked into the house. 
“Let us go and meet him. Come, Lisbeth, come with 
mother.” 

The last call was answered immediately by a small fair 20 
creature with pale auburn hair and grey eyes, little more than 
four years old, who ran out silently and put her hand into 
her mother’s. 

“ Come, uncle Seth,” said Dinah. 

“Ay, ay, we’re coming,” Seth answered from within, and 25 
presently appeared stooping under the doorway, being taller 
than usual by the black head of a sturdy two-year-old 
nephew, who had caused some delay by demanding to be car¬ 
ried on uncle’s shoulder. 

“ Better take him on thy arm, Seth,” said Dinah, looking 30 
581 


ADAM BEDE 


582 

fondly at the stout black-eyed fellow. “He’s troublesome to 
thee so.” 

“Nay, nay: Addy likes a ride on my shoulder. I can carry 
him so for a bit.” A kindness which young Addy acknowl- 
5 edged by drumming his heels with promising force against 
uncle Seth’s chest. But to walk by Dinah’s side, and be 
tyrannised over by Dinah’s and Adam’s children, was uncle 
Seth’s earthly happiness. 

“Where didst see him?” asked Seth, as they walked on into 
10 the adjoining field. “I can’t catch sight of him anywhere.” 

“Between the hedges by the roadside,” said Dinah. “I 
saw his hat and his shoulder. There he is again.” 

“Trust thee for catching sight of him if he’s anywhere to 
be seen,” said Seth, smiling. “Thee’t like poor mother used 
is to be. She was always on the look-out for Adam, and could 
see him sooner than other folks, for all her eyes got dim.” 

“He’s been longer than he expected,” said Dinah, taking 
Arthur’s watch from a small side-pocket and looking at it; 
“it’s nigh upon seven now.” 

20 “Ay, they’d have a deal to say to one another,” said Seth, 
Tand the meeting ’ud touch ’em both pretty closish. Why, 
it’s getting on towards eight years since they parted.” 

“Yes,” said Dinah, “Adam was greatly moved this morn¬ 
ing at the thought of the change he should see in the poor 
25 young man, from the sickness he has undergone, as well as 
the years which have changed us all. And the death of the 
poor wanderer, when she was coming back to us, has been 
sorrow upon sorrow.” 

“See, Addy,” said Seth, lowering the young one to his arm 
30now, and pointing, “there’s father coming—at the far stile.” 

Dinah hastened her steps, and little Lisbeth ran on at her 
utmost speed till she clasped her father’s leg. Adam patted 
her head and lifted her up to kiss her, but Dinah could see the 
marks of agitation on his face as she approached him, and he 
35 put her arm within his in silence. 

“Well, youngster, must I take you?” he said, trying to 
smile, when Addy stretched out his arms—ready, with the 


EPILOGUE 583 

usual baseness of infancy, to give up his uncle Seth at once, 
now there was some rarer patronage at hand. 

“It’s cut me a good deal, Dinah,” Adam said at last, when 
they were walking on. 

“Didst find him greatly altered?” said Dinah. 5 

“Why, he’s altered and yet not altered. I should ha’ known 
him anywhere. But his colour’s changed, and he looks sadly. 
However, the doctors say he’ll soon be set right in his own 
country air. He’s all sound in th’ inside: it’s only the fever 
shattered him so. But he speaks just the same, and smiles at to 
me just as he did when he was a lad. It’s wonderful how he’s 
always had just the same sort o’ look when he smiles.” 

“I’ve never seen him smile, poor young man,” said Dinah. 

“ But thee wilt see him smile, to-morrow,” said Adam. “He 
asked after thee the first thing when he began to come round, 15 
and we could talk to one another. ‘I hope she isn’t altered,’ 
he said, ‘I remember her face so well.’ I told him ‘no,’ ” 
Adam continued, looking fondly at the eyes that were turned 
up towards his, “only a bit plumper, as thee’dst a right to be 
after seven year. ‘ I may come and see her to-morrow, mayn’t 20 
I ?’ he said; ‘ I long to tell her how I’ve thought of her all these 
years.’ ” 

“Djdst tell him I’d always used the watch?” said Dinah. 

“Ay; and we talked a deal about thee, for he says he never 
saw a woman a bit like thee. ‘I shall turn Methodist some 25 
day,’ he said, ‘when she preaches out of doors, and go to hear 
her.’ And I said, ‘Nay, sir, you can’t do that, for °Conference 
has forbid the women preaching, and she’s given it up, all 
but talking to the people a bit in their houses.’ ” 

“Ah,” said Seth, who could not repress a comment on this 30 
point, “ and a sore pity it was o’ Conference; and if Dinah had 
seen as I did, we’d ha’ left the Wesleyans and joined a body 
that ’ud put no bonds on Christian liberty.” 

“Nay, lad, nay,” said Adam, “she was right and thee wast 
wrong. There’s no rule so wise but what it’s a pity for some- 35 
body or other. Most o’ the women do more harm nor good 
with their preaching—they’ve not got Dinah’s gift nor her 


ADAM BEDE 


5 8 4 


sperrit and she’s seen that, and she thought it right to set th’ 
example o’ submitting, for she’s not held from other sorts o’ 
teaching. And I agree with her, and approve o’ what she did.” 
Seth was silent. This was a standing subject of difference 
s rarely alluded to, and Dinah, wishing to quit it at once said— 
“Didst remember, Adam, to speak to Colonel Donnithorne 
the words my uncle and aunt intrusted to thee?” 

“Yes, and he’s going to the Hall Farm with Mr. Irwine 
the day after to-morrow. Mr. Irwine came in while we were 
io talking about it, and he would have it as the Colonel must see 
nobody but thee to-morrow: he said—and he’s in the right of 
it—as it’ll be bad for him t’ have his feelings stirred with see¬ 
ing many people one after another. ‘We must get you strong 
and hearty,’ he said, ‘that’s the first thing to be done, Arthur, 
15 and then you shall have your own way. But I shall keep you 
under your old tutor’s thumb till then.’ Mr. Irwine’s fine and 
joyful at having him home again.” 

Adam was silent a little while, and then said— 

“It was very cutting when we first saw one another. He’d 
20 never heard about poor Hetty till Mr. Irwine met him in 
London, for the letters missed him on his journey. The first 
thing he said to me, when we’d got hold o’ one another’s 
hands was, ‘I could never do anything for her, Adam—she 
lived long enough for all the suffering—and I’d thought so 
25 of the time when I might do something for her. But you told 
me the truth when you said to me once,° “There’s a sort of 
wrong that can never be made up for.” ’ ” 

“Why, there’s Mr. and Mrs. Poyser coming in at the yard 
gate,” said Seth. 

So there is,” said Dinah. “Run, Lisbeth, run to meet 


! 




30 


aunt Poyser. Come in, Adam, and rest; it has been a hard 
day for thee.” 




THE END 




NOTES 

CHAPTER I 

x:i Egyptian sorcerer. Sorcery was practised in various 
ways by all primitive peoples. 

1:5 Jonathan Burge. Employer of Adam Bede, who was 
viewed as a prospective husband for his daughter Mary. 

i :6 Hayslope. The village was located in the agricultural 
region of the Midland counties of England, where George 
Eliot spent her early life. Read opening pages of Felix Holt 
for description. Consult Introduction, pages xv and xvii. 

1:7 1799* “About 1799, or a little before, he (Robert 

Evans, father of the novelist) held a farm ... in Derby¬ 
shire, and became his (the owner’s) agent” (Cross’s Life of 
George Eliot). Consult Introduction, page xiii. 

x 124 “Awake, my soul, and with the sun.” Bishop Ken’s 
familiar and favorite Morning Hymn. See note on Bishop 
Ken, page 210. 

2:16 Adam Bede. Consult Introduction, pages xv? and 
xviii, and Who’s Who, page xxi. 

2:29 Seth’s. Consult Who’s Who, page xxi. 

3:8 “What! dost think thee’st finished the door?” The 
language used by the characters is not always standard 
English. The novelist, in a letter to her publisher, John 
Blackwood, seemed to appreciate the difficulties of her 
readers: “The dialect must be toned down all through in 
correcting the proofs, for I found it impossible to keep it 
subdued enough in writing. I am aware that the spelling 
which represents a dialect perfectly well to those who know 
it by ear, is apt to be unintelligible to others.” See Cross’s 
Life, p. 658, for a discussion of the Midland dialect used in 
Adam Bede. 


586 


NOTES 


3:21 Methody. Methodist, a follower of John Wesley 
and his associates. The influence of the Methodists was con¬ 
siderable in the period of the story of Adam Bede. Consult 
New International Encyclopedia , vol. XV, under Methodism. 
George Eliot’s aunt, Mrs. Samuel Evans, was a Methodist. 

4:35 Holly Bush. A local drinking place or public house. 

5:1 Yea . . . prophetess. See Matthew 11:9. 

5:13 Parson Irwine. See Who’s Who, page xix. 

6:5 Why . . . a nice hand. See / Kings 6: 18, 29, 32. 

CHAPTER 11 

10:3 Donnithome Arms. The inn at Hayslope, named 
after the landed family of Donnithorne, upon whose estate 
lived the families of the story. 

10:9 take of land. A leasehold. New Standard Dic¬ 
tionary quotes this passage to illustrate the use of the term. 

10:12 heraldic bearings. The Donnithorne coat of arms. 

12:12 Squire Donnithorne. Grandfather of Arthur 
Donnithorne (see Who’s Who, page xix), and owner of the 
Donnithorne estate of which the village is a part. 

16:30 Sehon, king of the Amorites. See Numbers 21:21. 

16:36 the dignity of the church. The followers of Method¬ 
ism were opposed by those who remained within the fold of 
the Church of England. Antagonism was rife among the 
people and among the clergy although, as we shall see, there 
were of course exceptions. See Chapter V. 

17:6 Quaker-like costume. Simplicity of dress as well 
as of life was characteristic of the early Methodists, resem¬ 
bling the members of the Society of Friends or Quakers. 

19:16 Dinah. “The character of Dinah grew out of my 
recollection of my aunt (Mrs. Samuel Evans) but Dinah is 
not at all like my aunt, who is a very small, black-eyed woman, 
and . . . very vehement in her style of preaching.” (George 
Eliot quoted by Cross in his Life , p. 280). 

21:6 Savior of sinners. See / Timothy 1:15. 

21:26 ‘Ye . . . life/ See John 10:10. 


NOTES 


S §7 


21:27 ‘Father . . . do.’ See Luke 23:34. 

21:28 Thou wilt come again in thy glory. See Matthew 

25:31- 

21:35 ‘The Spirit of the Lord is upon me . . .’ See 
Isaiah 61:1; Luke 4:18. 

21:36 ‘ ... to preach the gospel to the poor.’ See Luke 
4:18. 

22:14 Mr. Wesley. The Rev. John Wesley, founder of 
Methodism, born in 1703, died in 1791. Associated with him 
was his brother Charles. Wesley seems to have learned the 
value of field preaching from the evangelist, George White- 
field, at Bristol, England, and its environs. The practice 
became general among Methodists and, for a time at least, 
was not restricted to men. 

24:3 So he cured. . . . See Luke 7:21. 

24:16 ‘in the image of the Father.’ See Hebrews 1:1-3. 

24:31 ‘I came to seek and to save . . . ’ See Luke 19:10. 

24:32 ‘I came not to call . . . ’ See Luke 3: 32. 

26:30 Stone-pits. See Silas Marner for further mention 
of these. 

27:33 ‘How often . . . would not!’ See Matthew 23:37; 
Luke 13:34. 

27:37 “See the print of the nails . . .” See John 20:25. 

28:9 ‘Father, forgive them . . .’ See Luke 23:34. 

28:13 ‘My God, my God . . .’ See Matthew 27:46. 

28:35 ‘Come to me . . .’ See John 5:40. 

28:37 ‘Depart from me . . .’ See Matthew 25:41. 

CHAPTER III 

32:2 And this morning ... It was believed that 
Divine guidance was afforded in this way. The practice is 
frequently to be noted in the history of early New England. 

32:4 ‘And after we (he, in the original) had seen the 
vision . . .’ See Acts 16:10. 

32:18 ‘And Jacob served . . See Genesis 29:20. 

32:24 ‘She that’s married . . .’ See / Corinthians 7:33. 


NOTES 


588 

32:33 ‘I will that the younger women marry . . ? See 

I Timothy 5:14. , c r 

33:2i ‘as God has distributed to every man . . / bee 1 

Corinthians 7:17. _ . , . r T 

35:4 land of Goshen. The Egyptian abode ot Joseph s 

brethren. See Genesis 45:10. 

35:35 Beethoven. (1770-1827) German composer. 

36:8 Wesley and his fellow-laborer. George Whiteheld 
and John Wesley preached in the fields to the common 
people. See note under Mr. Wesley on page 22. 

36:32 having a literal way of interpreting . . . In our 
day they might be called Fundamentalists] as opposed to 

Modernists. . 

36:36 faith, hope, and charity. See I Corinthians 13. 

37:1 it is possible, thank Heaven! . . . feelings. Con¬ 
sult Cross’s Life , p. 62. “Ought we not on every opportunity 
to seek to have our feelings in harmony, though not in union, 
with those who are often richer in the fruits of faith, though 
not in reason, than ourselves?” Again: “Agreement between 
intellects seems unattainable, and we turn to the truth of 
feeling as the only universal bond of union.” How do you view 
these thoughts? Do you think interest in the story is lowered 
by the author’s reflections? 

37:8 Considering these things ... In this paragraph, 
the author indicates the difference in interest between the 
older romantic novelist and herself, the realist. Read: De¬ 
velopment of the English Novel by Wilbur L. Cross, Chapters 
XV-VII. 

CHAPTER IV 

The pathos of this chapter is noteworthy. Do you think the 
author reveals sentiment or sentimentality in her attitude? 

39:23 chapellm 5 . Attending chapel, that is, a house of 
worship other than a church edifice of the Church of England; 
a Methodist chapel, for example, where Seth Bede worshipped. 
He dissented from the church views of his family. 

39:33 ‘Waggin Overthrow’.’ “Waggon Overthrown” was 


NOTES 589 

the name of a public house or drinking place evidently fre¬ 
quented by Thias Bede, father of Adam. 

42:20 Solomon . . . See Proverbs 27:15. 

45:35 Take no thought. See Matthew 6:34. 

46:28 “nattering” habit. Scotch and provincial English 
for peevish, nagging, fault-finding. 

47 : 35 diorama. An exhibition of pictures, in spectacular 
arrangement, devised by the Frenchman, Daguerre, artist 
and photographer (1789-1851). 

49:12 ‘They that are strong . . . themselves.’ See Ro¬ 
mans 15:1. 

50:3 Adam was not a man . . . camel. Discuss the 
worth of this statement. 

53 : 31 I 11 reality . . . hope in it. Is this psychologically 

true? 

CHAPTER V 

55 ; The Rector. The clergyman in charge of a parish; 
in this case, the Rev. Adolphus Irwine of the parish of Broxton. 

55:16 Rev. Adolphus Irwine. See Who’s Who, p. xix. 

55:18 pluralist. One who holds more than one ecclesiasti¬ 
cal office; viewed by some to be open to serious objection. 
Why? 

56:16 embonpoint. Stoutness. See New Standard Dic¬ 
tionary where this passage is cited in illustration of the word. 

56:17 Ceres. In classical myth, the goddess of corn 
and harvest. Cf. cereal. 

58:25 come St. Thomas. Next St. Thomas’s Day, 
December 21. 

60:32 Blind Pharisee. See Matthew 23:26. 

62:14 Sacriment-cup. Chalice used in the sacrament of 
the Holy Communion. 

66:25 Olympian goddess. According to early Greek 
poets, Mt. Olympus in Thessaly was the abode of gods and 
goddesses. 

67:19 ‘Lyrical Ballads.’ The appearance of these 
poems by Coleridge and Wordsworth, in 1798 (note the date 


NOTES 


590 

of Adam Bede , 1799), was considered with sharp difference of 
opinion by the critics. The book really heralded a departure 
from the prevailing heroic couplet verse of a century and more 
previous. The so-called romantic school had announced its 

ar 67^20 ‘The Ancient Mariner.’ Coleridge’s famous ballad, 
a form of poetry long an outcast, from the classical view¬ 
point, but now restored to perhaps a lasting place among 

verse forms. . 

67:24 Antinomianism and Evangelicalism, .forms ot 
religious faith. See unabridged dictionary or encyclopedia. 

68:29 News from Egypt. The campaign of Napoleon 
for the possession of the Nile. In July, 1798, he had defeated 
the Turks in the Battle of the Pyramids, and the Indian 
empire of Britain seemed threatened. In July, I 799 > (the 
month after the carpenter scene in chapter I of Adam Bede) 
Bonaparte again defeated the Turks in The Battle of Aboukir. 

69:17 Nevertheless . . . Discuss the truth of this state¬ 
ment. r i o 1 

70:6 epicurean. Refers to the philosophy of the Greek, 

Epicurus who taught that pleasure is the chief goal of life. 
70:22 lusts of the flesh . . . See I John 2:16; II Peter 2:18. 
71:22 Sophocles. One of the greatest of ancient Greek 
dramatists, (495-406, B.c.). 

71:22 Theocritus. One of the pastoral poets ol ancient 
Greece (third century b.c.). 

71:23 Isaiah. One of the major Hebrew prophets, leader 
of the thought of his people during the eighth century B.c. 

71:23 Amos. One of the so-called minor Hebrew proph¬ 
ets; shepherd-preacher and reformer of about the eighth 
century B.C. 

71:33 to give his body to be burned. See / Corinthians 
13 * 3 - 

CHAPTER VI 

This chapter affords an excellent illustration of George 
Eliot’s ability vividly to portray a large scene setting. 


NOTES 


591 


73:26 chancery suit. In the time of Adam Bede, the 
chancery court was, next to the House of Lords, the highest 
in England. 

76:36 Martha and Mary. Sisters of Lazarus; repre¬ 
sentatives of the active-practical and the pensive-spiritual 
types of women. See Luke 10:40; John 11:1, 5. 

77:4 Her tongue . . . Note the humor of the figure of 
speech. 

77:24 Michaelmas. The feast of St. Michael, September 
29; one of the rent-days in England; hence, a convenient date 
to reckon events. 

77:28 mawkin. Same as malkin, a “scare-crow represent¬ 
ing a woman” {New Standard Dictionary ). 

78:9 Dantean picture of her future. Evidently not the 
likeness drawn in Dante’s Paradiso. Name the other two 
parts of the great Florentine’s epic. 

81:18 And all because ... The Book of Common 
Prayer is the service book of the Church of England. T. he 
catechism of the Church may be found in the Prayer Book. 
To Mrs. Poyser, good churchwoman that she was, these 
seemed sufficient for the religious life. There was no need of 
Methodist additions, such as Dinah preached. 

83:15 bucolic. Pastoral, rural. 

84:1 factor. Commission merchant. 

84:33 Lord Dacey’s eldest son had lost ... In i 799 > 
Prince George, eldest son of King George III, was Prince of 
Wales. Bom in 1762, he became Prince Regent in 1811, and 
in 1820 succeeded to the throne as George IV. He was known 
for his gambling and extravagant way of living. 

CHAPTER VII 

Inasmuch as Mrs. Poyser is the leading figure in this 
chapter it will be worthwhile to study her humor. Leslie 
Stephen says that “Adam Bede for most of us means pre¬ 
eminently Mrs. Poyser.” Do you agree? Again, the same 
critic remarks: “Her dairy is really the centre of the whole 


592 


NOTES 


microcosm. We are first introduced to it as the background 
which makes the ‘kitten-like’ beauty of Hester Sorrel irre¬ 
sistible to young Captain Donnithorne. But Mrs. Poyser is 
the presiding genius ... It is, indeed, needless to insist 
upon her excellence; for Mrs. Poyser became at once one of 
the immortals.” Read pages 77, 78 and 79 of George Eliot by 
Leslie Stephen. Write a critical review of what he says in 
the light of your own reflection. 

87:2 calenture. Generally, a delirious fever, hence used 
here figuratively to indicate passionate fondness. 

88:16 It is of little use . . . Study this description care¬ 
fully and note any reasons for its effectiveness. 

89:27 Swede turnips. Turnips allied to common turnips 
and said to be native to Sweden. See rutabaga in unabridged 
dictionary. 

89:27 short-horns. A breed of cattle originally from the 
valley of the Tees in northern England. 

90:25 millennial abundance of new gates . . . Millen¬ 
nial from millennium , the thousand years of the earthly 
Kingdom of Christ, which His followers eagerly expected 
would be a period of abundant happiness and peace. See 
Revelations 20:1-5, for the basis of early Christian thought 
and hope. 

91:8 Chase. Unenclosed game-preserve or hunting- 
ground on the Donnithorne estate. 

92:1 “It dot notin in it . . .” Is George Eliot a good child 
psychologist? Note other instances of her interest in children 
and their remarks. 

CHAPTER VIII 

93: AVocation. Look up the precise meaning of this term. 

93:6 Oh that the good seed ... See Matthew 13:5; 
Mark 4:1-20. 

94:10 Methodist. A Wesleyan. At Oxford, Charles 
Wesley and his friends led a strict, religious life and carefully 
observed the method of study set forth in the university 
regulations. Hence, the term Methodist. 




NOTES 


593 


95 * 

96:3 

96:9 

96:17 

974 

passage 

97:12 

97:30 


‘ Am I my brother’s keeper?’ See Genesis 4:9. 
sheep without a shepherd. See Numbers 27:17. 
everlasting arms. See Deuteronomy 33:27. 
to hear the Word of Life. See Philippians 2:16. 
“He must be . . .” Explain the meaning of this 


burning bush. See Exodus 3:2. 
among the green pastures and the still waters. 

See Psalms 23:2. . t? 

97:33 Leeds. Manufacturing town in Yorkshire, Lng- 

b 987 “Yes, I know Seth well .... Seth is a gracious 
young man—sincere and without offence.” Do you form the 
same estimate? Leslie Stephen says: “Seth Bede, I confess, 
bores me.” Does he bore you? . c 

98:9 patriarch Joseph. See Genesis for the story ot 
Joseph (chapters 37ff). See, especially, 42:24; 43:30; 

46 qq\ c Pyrrhic dance. A Greek mimic war-dance. 

99:31 worldly Sadducee. The Sadducees were an an¬ 
cient Hebrew sect whose religious philosophy limited their 
view to earthly affairs, and their conduct to man s own 
human will. How did this philosophy so influence their 
action as to warrant the use of the adjective worldv • 

100:19 faffing at once from the key of B with five 
sharps to the frank and genial C. Explain this figure ot 

SP< ioi:22 didactic purpose. Teaching or moralizing pur¬ 


pose. 


CHAPTER IX 


Compare Hetty’s views in the second paragraph with 
those of Portia in The Merchant of Vemce, Act I, Scene 2. 

102:10 Memnon’s statue. One of two famous ancien.. 
Egyptian statues credited with giving forth the music ot t e 

'"^“^‘"therewas no rigid demarcation of rank between 


NOTES 


594 


the farmer and the respectable artisan. Farm labor being 
the more ancient and affording the more independent liveli¬ 
hood was regarded by many as more respectable than the 

artisan’s trade. . , 

104:13 Lady-day. A day observed in honor or the 
Virgin Mary, perhaps March 25, Annunciation Day. 

104:23 geek. gawk. 

105:31 Nottingham lace. The famous lace manufac¬ 
tured in Nottingham in north-central England. 

106:8 beatified world. A world supremely blessed and 


nectar. The favorite drink of the Olympian 


happy. 

107:24 
gods. 

108:5 Hebe. Goddess of youth; cup-bearer to the Olym¬ 
pian gods. 

108:10 phiz. Corruption of physiognomy; face or coun¬ 
tenance. . , 

108:35 grand-vizier. The highest official in lurkish and 
other Mohammedan countries. 

109:15 one might have escaped from Socrates himself in 
the saddle. Socrates was in the habit of stopping a way¬ 
farer to engage him in philosophical conversation. 


CHAPTER X 

Note the quaint figures of speech in this chapter. 

112:31 posset. An English drink of hot milk with 
liquor, often thickened with bread. 

114:6 Gyp . . . Does your knowledge of dogs support 
the author’s view of Gyp? 

117:16 my heart went out towards you. See Judges 5:9. 
119:32 cade, pet, (dialectal). 

120:21 children of this world . . . See Ephesians 5:8; 

I Thessalonians 5:5. 

120:37 under the thack. Under the thatch. 

121:7 David did . . . See// Samuel 22. 

122:3 After our subtlest . . . Discuss this statement. 


NOTES 


595 


CHAPTER XI 

123:25 “There’s nothing but what’s bearable as long as 
a man can work.” Is this so? Explain. 

124:37 to bear the burthen and heat of the day. See 

Matthew 20:12. 

128:23 Bartle Massey says ... To what extent do you 
know this criticism, in any particulars, to be true? 

CHAPTER XII 

132:5 Pharaoh’s daughter and her maidens. See Exodus 
2:5. 

132:16 “Beggar’s Opera.” John Gay’s burlesque master¬ 
piece, first appearing in 1728, revived in America in 1921. 

133:2 hobble. Difficulty. 

133:21 partly filial, partly fraternal. Discriminate these 
terms. Tell why Arthur should consider them as applicable 
to the rector. 

134:5 It would be ridiculous ... In a paragraph, dis¬ 
cuss the irony of this sentence. . . 

135:8 misanthropy. Look up the meaning and origin 01 
this word. Cf. philanthropy. . . 

136:1 The judicious historian . . . without singing as 
he went. Do you believe that anything is gained by omitting 
a detailed account of this scene? Why? 

136:15 Windsor. Favorite residence of English mon- 
archs; on the Thames near London. 

137:8 Centaurs. Fabled monsters: part man, from 
waist up, part horse, legs and body. 

137:17 rencontre (renconter). An unexpected encounter. 

138:17 Dr. Moore’s Zeluco. Published in 1786; one of 
three works of fiction by Dr. John Moore, a Scotch physician 
and minor writer of the eighteenth century. 

CHAPTER XIII 

145:10 She thought nothing . . . Note the beauty of 
this description, brief though it is. 


596 


NOTES 


146:2 leveret. A young hare or rabbit. 

147:4 Egyptian granite. Perhaps, the reference is to the 
peculiarly cold, emotionless stare of Egyptian portrait art. 
Granite did not lend itself to expression as did Greek 
marble. 

147:12 shepherd in Arcadia. According to pastoral 
poets, Arcadia in the Peloponnesus was the home of shep¬ 
herd’s verse. . 

147:13 Eros. God of love in ancient Greek mythology. 

147:14 Psyche. In Greek myth, a mortal maiden of 
great beauty, beloved of Eros. 

148:35 No gentleman, out of a ballad, could marry a 
farmer’s niece. Ballad poetry, after a long decline in favor, 
was revived in the eighteenth century, particularly through 
such poets as Coleridge and Wordsworth. (See note on 
Lyrical Ballads , page 67). The heroes of balladry were de¬ 
cidedly romantic and, even though noble-born, did not al¬ 
ways limit their attentions to maidens of their own patrician 
class. Life presented fewer illustrations by far than the 
imagination of the ballad composers. 

CHAPTER XIV 

150:10 th’ angel a-sittin’ on the big stone by the grave. 

See Matthew 28:2. 

151:10 To the feminine mind in some of its moods . . . 

Do you agree with George Eliot? Explain your views in a 
short paragraph. 

152:15 “Pilgr im ’s Progress.” John Bunyan’s master¬ 
piece published in the seventeenth century; one of the great 
prose allegories of literature. 

153:4 the strong, skilful men . . . children. What is 
your opinion? 

154:1 Hebrew points. Ancient Hebrew was a language 
without vowel symbols. Later times seemed to require the 
preservation of the ancient sound values. Hence, the intro¬ 
duction of vowel points with the consequent difficulty for the 


NOTES 


59 7 

student of the language. Disputes naturally arose among 
scholars. 

156:11 cowcumber. Provincial for cucumber. 

I 57 :I ° “Sit down, . . .” An excellent illustration of 
Mrs. Poyser’s humor may be found here and there in this 
chapter as in nearly every other. Make a list of a dozen or 
more expressions which you regard as among her best from 
the point of view of wit and homely wisdom. In Cross’s Life, 
page 291, we read: “The Edinburgh Courant has the ring of 
sincere enjoyment in its tone; and the writer there makes 
himself so amiable to me, that I am sorry he has fallen into 
the mistake of supposing that Mrs. Poyser’s original sayings 
are remembered proverbs! I have no stock of proverbs in my 
memory; and there is not one thing put into Mrs. Poyser’s 
mouth that is not fresh from my own mint.” 

159:4 rushlight. How were houses lighted in 1799? 
What expressions do you find as illustrations? 

159:18 wench. Provincial for girl in lowly station; a 
female servant. It is especially appropriate here since it is 
derived from an Anglo-Saxon word meaning orphan. Ex¬ 
plain this appropriateness. 

CHAPTER XV 

171:9 “And they all wept sore . . .” See Acts 20:37. 

173:8 It is our habit . . . than it is. Do you feel from 
any personal experiences that the author is correct? 

CHAPTER XVI 

174:7 One can say everything best over a meal. Can 

one? .Why, if so? 

174:9 The progress . . . claret. How true is this? 

174:21 Still, there was . . . deed. Is there an element 
of worth in this outward manifestation of a thought? 

175:28 Adam looked ’round . . . obsolete. What are 
your opinions upon the matter expanded in this paragraph? 


NOTES 


598 

177:23 “A foreman . . . extra pay for it.” What is the 
value of this statement? 

178:24 “Why, yes, sir; . . . myself.” Analyze this 
brief philosophy of life and consider critically the several 
statements. Do you agree with Adam? If so, why? 

179:14 shilly-shally. Look up the origin of this expres¬ 
sion. 

180:10 “I’m not so sure of that, Adam ... to me. 

Discuss the merits of Arthur’s contention. 

181:6 Foulis’ Aeschylus. A celebrated edition of the 
great Greek dramatist’s work by the famous eighteenth 
century Scotch printers, Robert and Andrew Foulis. 

181:18 when I was reading with you. The rector had 
been Arthur’s tutor in his preparation for college. 

182:14 a little inapplicable Latin to adorn my maiden 
speech . . . hence. Orators of the period frequently used 
quotations from the Latin. See Burke’s Speech on Concilia¬ 
tion with the American Colonies. 

182:16 ‘Cras ingens iterabimus aequord ‘Tomorrow we 
shall embark again on the great calm sea.’ 

182:21 Arthur Young’s books. Arthur Young (1741- 
1820), an English agriculturist and writer. His Travels in 
France was widely read for its information upon French 
agriculture and conditions in France before the Revolution. 
Young was a leading authority upon farming, his ideas being 
based upon personal experiences, investigation, and travel. 

183:4 I’m not sure . . . them. Are there any historic 
or personal illustrations of this? 

183:11 I don’t believe . . . kindness. How true is 
this? 

183:26 as the moon rules the tides. George Eliot de¬ 
lighted in the use of scientific allusions. See Leslie Stephen’s 
Life , page 194. 

184:36 the warning given him by the chorus in the 
Prometheus. Prometheus was a tragedy by the great Greek 
dramatist, Aeschylus. The chorus was a prominent part in 
ancient Greek drama. 


NOTES 


599 


185:28 Nemesis. Avenging goddess of Greek mythology. 

185:28 Consequences are unpitying. To what extent is 
this true? 

186:16 Our mental business . . . acknowledged. Dis¬ 
cuss the truth of this. 

186:18 In a piece of machinery . . . ones. Can you 
give an illustration? 

CHAPTER XVII 

From the standpoint of interest, how do you view the 
interruption in the story, which this chapter necessitates? 
Is the discussion vital to the unfolding of the history and 
character of Adam Bede? 

188:11 But it happens ... In this statement we catch 
a glimpse of George Eliot’s realism. Compare it with the view 
of any other novelist with whose work you are familiar. 

190:15 Dutch paintings. Realism and romance, one 
readily sees, exist in other arts than the literary. Who are 
some of the painters of the Dutch School, and whom of the 
school suggested in the third sentence has the novelist per¬ 
haps in mind? Who are the realists? What merit can you 
discover in each school, in literature and in painting? 

190:36 things may be lovable that are not altogether 
handsome. Have you any comment or illustration to offer? 

191:6 Apollo. God of youth, manly beauty, light, and 
music. 

191:16 Diana. Goddess of the moon and of the woods. 

191:18 human feeling ... See note upon “the truth of 
feeling,” page 37. . . . . , , 

191:27 Madonna. A portrait of the Virgin Mary, very 
common in the history of Christian art. 

192:26 Oberlin. Famous French clergyman, educator, 
and philanthropist (17401828). 

192:26 Tillotson. Archbishop of Canterbury in the 
seventeenth century; one of the so-called non-juring clergy. 
Consult his life in the New International Encyclopedia. 

192*30 And so I come back to Mr. Irwine . . . Analyze 


6 oo 


NOTES 


this paragraph and note the iteration of the novelist’s views. 
These were largely lived in her own life. 

193:17 Dissenter. One who declined assent to the 
doctrines and discipline of the Church of England; generally, 
a Non-Conformist such as a Presbyterian or a Methodist. 

193:20 “But,” said Adam, “Fve . . . feelings.” Is this 
a narrow view of religion? What connection does Adam Bede 
see between religion and conduct? From a consideration of 
Adam’s views, write out his probable favorites among the 
Ten Commandments. 

I 93 : 3 5 Ranter. A member of a religious sect of the early 
nineteenth century which had separated from the Methodist 
body. A term of contempt, referring to a characteristic 
boisterous zeal. 

194:35 like a rushing, mighty wind. See Acts 2:2. 

195:29 Arminians. Believers in the doctrines of Armin- 
ius, the Dutch theologian (15601609). John Wesley was 
much impressed by Arminianism. 

195:30 Calvinists. Believers in the doctrine and church 
system of John Calvin (1509-1564). George Whitefield, early 
associate of John Wesley, was a Calvinist. Wesley and 
Whitefield parted upon their difference of opinion. 

After a careful reading of Chapter XVII, summarize 
Adam’s philosophy of life. Was he democratic? Do you think 
it was possible for such a man to have the thoughts he ex- 

f resses at the time the story is supposed to have taken place? 
s it possible that the views Adam offers are really George 
Eliot’s? What events had been happening in England and 
elsewhere that might have influenced opinions of one in 
Adam’s station in life? Is there anything in his character 
and way of life to account for his opinions? 

CHAPTER XVIII 

199:12 fustian. A kind of corduroy. 

199:20 tippet. A kind of wool scarf or muffler for the neck. 
200:7 “Whissuntide.” Whitsuntide, the season im- 


NOTES 601 

mediately following Ascension in the calendar of the Church 
of England. 

200:25 Sacrament Sundays. Sundays when the sacra¬ 
ment of Holy Communion was celebrated. 

202:15 hugger-mugger. Slovenly confusion. 

202-36 sloes. Bluish black, plumlike fruit. 

203:22 rennet. Membranous lining of the stomach of 
certain ruminant animals such as sheep or calves, capable of 
curdling milk. 

203:27 ‘Love your neighbour as yourself.* See Matthew 
19:19. 

203:34 megrims. Whims or fads. 

209:13 vestry. The room where the vestry or church 
trustees meet or where the clergy robe before service. 

209:21 funeral-psalm. Probably, Psalm 90. 

209:30 bassoon. An organ stop resembling the wooden 
reed instrument of the same name; or the reed instrument it¬ 
self. 

209:30 key-bugles. Bugles having keys of two octaves. 

210:28 not one of them could read. Educational op¬ 
portunities were exceedingly meager in England as elsewhere 
in 1799. 

210:35 Bishop Ken’s evening hymn. Thomas Ken 
(1637-1711), an English bishop and hymn writer. Two of his 
hymns are still well known: Morning Hymn (“Awake, my 
soul, and with the sun”), and Evening Hymn (“Glory to 
Thee, my God, this night”). The widely sung doxology, 
“Praise God from Whom all blessings flow,” was Bishop 
Ken’s. We remember that, in Chapter I, Adam Bede is sing¬ 
ing the Morning Hymn when he first appears in the story. 

211:1 pipe of Pan. A very early form of reed instrument 
attributed to the god Pan in Greek myth. 

211:7 recusant. Obstinate in refusing to conform to 
authoritative commands. 

212:19 General Confession. Part of the service of the 
Church of England, in which all people in the congregation 
confess their sins in common. 


602 


NOTES 


213:2 “Absolution.” In The Book of Common Prayer , 
the service book of the Church of England, the Absolution is 
pronounced by the clergyman after the General Confession. 

213:26 familiar rhythm of its collects. Referring to the 
characteristic rhythmic style of the language of the English 
Prayer Book, as found especially in the short prayers called 
Collects. 

213:29 catacombs. The subterranean cemeteries in 
which early Christians sought refuge in time of persecution. 

214:18 occiput. Lower back part of the head. 

215:3 Lisbeth had a vague belief . . . Note the irony in 
this sentence. 

215:16 Divine dealings were not measured and cir¬ 
cumscribed by time. See Psalm 90, verses 1-4. 

216:23 “In the midst of life we are in death.” A sen¬ 
tence from the Burial Service in The Book of Common Prayer. 

216:34 “The peace of God, which passeth all under¬ 
standing.” Part of the Benediction at the close of service. 
See Philemon 4:7. 

219:1 compost. A fertilizing mixture used in agriculture. 

219:17 glass sticks at ‘change.’ The barometer con¬ 
tinues to indicate a change from fair to rainy weather. 

220:17 Nelson. Admiral Lord Nelson, conqueror of the 
French in the Battle of the Nile, in 1798, and Trafalgar, in 
1805. 

CHAPTER XIX 

225:21 terrible sweep . . . militia. Refers to the system 
of paying for a substitute in military service. 

225:29 there were things implicitly . . . accept. Name 
them. 

227:16 Old and New Version. That is, the Bible , Old 
and New Testaments. 

227:18 profane history. Secular as distinguished from 
biblical history. 

227:31 apocryphal books. Certain books not considered 
as canonical and therefore, in the Church of England, not 


NOTES 


603 


regarded as authoritative in the same way as other books. 
They may be used for instruction but not for the determina¬ 
tion of points of doctrine. 

227:32 “Poor Richard’s Almanac.” Benjamin Frank¬ 
lin’s celebrated publication. 

227:32 Taylor’s “Holy Living and Dying.” Two popular 
devotional works by the noted clergyman, Jeremy Taylor, 
(1613-1667). 

227:33 “The Pilgrim’s Progress.” Masterpiece of John 
Bunyan (1628-1688). See p. 152. 

227:33 Bunyan’s Life and “Holy War.” Life may mean 
Bunyan’s The Life and Death of Mr. Badman. The Holy 
War by Bunyan is an allegory. 

227:34 Bailey’s Dictionary. An universal etymological 
English dictionary, published in 1721 by Nathaniel Bailey. 
It was a very popular work. Dr. Samuel Johnson used it in 
preparing his celebrated dictionary. 

227:35 “Valentine and Orson.” An old romance of 
France. 

CHAPTER XX 

231:2 dratchell. An untidy woman. (A provincial 

word). . , 

232:2 York and Lankester roses. The white and red 
roses were, respectively, the badges of the rival houses of 
York and Lancaster by whom the Wars of the Roses were 
fought during the fifteenth century. 

232:4 whey. A beverage consisting of water and the 
milk-sugar that remains in the making of cheese. 

232:35 Gueldres roses. The snowball tree flowers. 

233:4 rick-yard. A yard containing ricks or small 
rounded piles of hay. 

233:17 filberts. Bushy shrubs bearing hazel nuts. 

233*25 groundsel. A common European weed. 

233:30 union of the houses of York and Lancaster. 
This union was brought about in i486 by the marriage of 
King Henry VII of Lancaster and Elizabeth of York. 


NOTES 


604 

233:31 Provence rose. European species of rose, large 
and fragrant. 

240:30 chine. The back of an animal ready for cooking; 
a chine of beef, for example. 

242:11 Mrs. Poyser’s attention ... An exquisite illus¬ 
tration of George Eliot’s humor. 

243:6 St. Vitus’s Dance. A nervous, involuntary muscu¬ 
lar twitching of the limbs. 

247:15 wake. Night vigil in a church before a festival, 
or in a house before the burial of a dead person. 

CHAPTER XXI 

248:6 thin dips. Thin candles. 

252:27 But knowledge isn’t to be got . . . What do you 
think of Bartle Massey’s educational principle? 

254:16 turnspits. Small dachshundlike dogs. 

255:35 carved oaken press. An upright closet. 

256:1 that period of spider-legs and inlaid cupids. The 
period at the close of the eighteenth century when these 
things characterized a style in furniture. 

260:34 Jacob and Rachel. See Genesis 29. 

261:7 gimcrack. Useless thing. 

CHAPTER XXII 

265:6 camomile. Strong-scented herb with white rays 
and yellow disk. 

266:19 tucker. Neck and shoulder covering of lace and 
muslin, characteristic of women’s dress in the eighteenth 
century and earlier. 

267:2 you will never understand women’s natures if 
you are so excessively rational. Wh at is your opinion ? Why ? 

269:36 Old Harry. Colloquial for the devil. 

271:32 Scotch raybels. Dances. 

272:14 marquee. Field-tent or canopy. 

272:18 Queen Anne’s time. Early 18th century (1702-1714). 


NOTES 605 

273133 Queen Elizabeth. Reigned in England from 1558 
to 1603. 

273 : 34 General Monk. Famous English general under 
Cromwell, later active in the Stuart Restoration of 1660. 

273:34 Daniel . . . lions. See Daniel 6:27. 

273:35 Julius Caesar . . . Commentaries. The Com¬ 
mentaries on the Gallic and the Civil Wars by Julius Caesar. 

273:6 aTrepuTos epcos, as old Aeschylus calls it. Trans¬ 
lated by George Eliot as “unloving love/’ Aeschylus was one 
of the greatest of ancient Greek dramatists, “the father of 
Greek tragedy,” (525-456 b.c.). 

CHAPTER XXIV 

284:20 da capo. A musical term meaning “from the 
beginning,” that is, a direction to return and play or sing 
from the beginning. 

CHAPTER XXV 

Note the clear-cut impressions of personalities made 
through conversation. Note, too, the admirable bits of 
description of country customs. 

299:29 “White Cockade.” Named after the white 
cockade which was the emblem of the House of Stuart and 
also of the royalist party in France. 

CHAPTER XXVI 

302:14 his conscience would not let him join in dancing. 

Dancing was forbidden by the Methodists. 

CHAPTER XXVII 

324:10 But between . . . See Arthur’s words on page 
178. 

CHAPTER XXVIII 

327:37 lanthom. Lantern. 


6 o6 


NOTES 


CHAPTER XXIX 

335:36 Nemesis can seldom forge a sword for herself 
out of our consciences. What is the meaning of this? 

337:35 fait accompli. Accomplished fact; settled issue. 

CHAPTER XXX 

345:23 filbert-trees. Hazel-nut trees. 

345:24 u cob-nut.’ , A children’s game with large hazel 
nuts. 

348:37 I don’t believe Ganymede cried when the eagle 
carried him away . . . Refers to the myth which told how the 
eagle of Zeus (Jove) carried away Ganymede, most beautiful 
of mortals, to be cup-bearer to the Olympian god himself. 

352:23 clemmed. Pinched with hunger. 

353:15 windows of heaven were opened. See Genesis 
7:11. 

353:18 laying up of the manna. See Exodus 16:15; 
Numbers 11 :g. 

353:23 as the patriarch Joseph did. See Genesis 42-50, 
for story of Joseph. See note, page 98. 

353:34 inward light. Illumination into Divine purposes 
much spoken of by mystics or those who hold a mystical view 
of religious faith. 

354:7 sharing the Redeemer’s cross. Metaphor derived 
from the tragedy of Calvary on Good Friday; referring to 
the bearing of the cross by Simon. See Luke 23 :26. 

354:16 Is not the Man of Sorrows . . . He ascended? 
See Isaiah 53:3; Luke 24:51. “The Man of Sorrows” is a 
term frequently used by Christian writers in referring to Jesus. 

354:17 And is He not one with the Infinite Love itself. 
See John 10:30. 

354:22 ‘If any man love me, let him take up my cross.’ 
Not precisely quoted from Mark 8:34; 10:21; Luke 9:23. 

354:28 the cup we must drink of with him. See Mark 
10:39. 


NOTES 607 

355:2 laying a false offering . . . kindle it. See I 
Kings 18 for the story of Elijah and the prophets of Baal. 

355:10 pen of a ready writer. See Psalm 45:1. 

355:11 work of the house is sufficient for the day. See 

Matthew 6:34. 

355:36 Greet your mother for me with a kiss. Favorite 
expression of St. Paul’s. See, for example, I Corinthians 
16:20. 

CHAPTER XXXII 

One of the chapters where Mrs. Poyser’s humor appears 
at its best. 

3 70:14 she was not the woman to misbehave towards her 
betters, and fly in the face of the catechism. Refers to that 
part of the catechism of the Church of England, called My 
Duty towards My Neighbor , to wit: “To order myself lowly 
and reverently to all my betters.” 

375:34 all the plagues o’ Egypt. See Genesis 12:17; 
Exodus 8. 

CHAPTER XXXIII 

378:18 The news that “Bony” was come back from 
Egypt . . . and the repulse of the French in Italy . . . 
The news of Napoleon Bonaparte’s activities was the com¬ 
mon talk of the day. See Introduction, page xv. 

379:13 he was like a cock, who thought the sun had 
risen to hear him crow. An illustration of George Eliot’s 
ability to coin a quotable sentence. 

379:15 Aesop’s fable in a sentence. Why? 

379:22 Lady Day. A day observed in honor of the Virgin 
Mary, probably March 25, called Annunciation Day. 

379:28 unconscionable. Far beyond the customary age. 

CHAPTER XXXV 

In this chapter begins the story of what is soon to be the 
flight of Hetty, one of the most pathetic accounts in fiction. 


6 o8 


NOTES 


Leslie Stephen recalls Tennyson’s comment that Hetty’s 
flight is one of “the two most pathetic things in modern 
fiction.” (Life, page 192). 

392:6 image of a great agony—the agony of the Cross. 

On the continent of Europe, the Crucifix may often be seen 
by the roadside, 

392:26 suffering God. A concept of the Christ as ac¬ 
cepted by the great majority of Christians. 

CHAPTER XXXVI 

403 :g by driving like Jehu, son of Nimshi. See II Kings 
9:20. 

403:15 Stratford-on-Avon. Home and burial place of 
Shakespeare, in the Midlands, England. 

406:7 she comes from a good way off, to judge by her 
tongue. The difference in speech between the Warwickshire 
folk and their more southerly countrymen is marked. 

CHAPTER XXXVII 

410:13 those words of Dinah in the bed-chamber . . . 

See page 172. 

414:26 Medusa-face. Medusa was one of the three 
Gorgons. Her hair was composed of serpents and her face 
had the power of changing to stone every one who looked at it. 

CHAPTER XXXVIII 

421:23 for anyone to go out for their health. Is there an 

error in grammar? 

425:16 Leeds. The large manufacturing city in York¬ 
shire, England. 

425:17 sin’ Friday was a fortnight. Two weeks ago last 
Friday. 

433:8 spud. A spadelike implement. 


NOTES 


609 


CHAPTER XL 

444 :2 7 Irish Channel. Between Great Britain and Ireland. 
446:18 assizes. Regular sessions of a trial court; here, 
the Lent, or spring, term. 

447:13 last St. Thomas’s. December 21, in the Church’s 
calendar. 

CHAPTER XLI 

458:23 your feelings after you had given that blow to 

Arthur in the grove. See page 324, last paragraph of Chapter 
.X. .XV II. 

CHAPTER XLII 

464:13 ferrety-faced man. Explain this figure of speech. 

CHAPTER XLI V 

475:13 Nelson victory. During the period of the story, 
the English admiral, Lord Nelson, was at the height of his 
success and fame. 

CHAPTER XLV 

481:14 Are you the gentleman . . . See pages 13, 14. 
485:4 And do you remember . . . See page 172. 

486:19 T have done this great wickedness; . . See 

Genesis 39:9. 

487:17 they of old . . . See Matthew 4:24. 

487:26 eleventh hour. See Matthew 20:9. 

487:36 coming, like the morning, with healing on thy 
wings. See Malachi 4:2. 

488:7 ‘Father, I have sinned’. See Luke 15:21. 

491:5 Abbot’s Close. The private grounds of the head 
of an abbey. 

CHAPTER XLVII 

Read Dickens’s Tale of Two Cities and compare the 
sympathetic attitude of Sidney Carton in the last chapter 


6 io 


NOTES 


with that of Dinah Morris in this. Which appears more 
satisfying: the conclusion of Carton’s case or that of Hetty? 
From the standpoint of language, which impresses you 
more? Why? 

501:6 hard-won release from death. See Introduction 
for the story of the novelist’s aunt, upon which the story of 
Hetty is based. How did the original story end? Is there any 
advantage in the change? 

CHAPTER XLVIII 

503:5 as we’s . . . the seas. Probably refers to Bot¬ 
any Bay, on the coast of Australia, the site of a penal colony 
newly established in the time of Adam Bede. 

CHAPTER XLIX 

513:11 Sermon on the Mount. See Matthew 5. 

CHAPTER L 

524:32 that there’ll . . . last long. One of the times 
during the long Napoleonic struggle, when it was expected 
that peace might be effected. 

525:5 like Esau. See Genesis 25:34. 

525:13 “I like to read about Moses ... He carried 
. . . reap the fruits. See Deuteronomy 34:5. 

527:23 Wesley’s abridgment of Madame Guyon’s life. 
One of the many literary labors of John Wesley for the 
benefit of his followers. 

530:2 departure from the precepts of Solomon. See 

Proverbs for these precepts. 

531:10 gallant Colonel Bath. A character in Henry 
Fielding’s Amelia (1751), who, while dignified before the 
world, is capable of performing the humblest duties of the 
household. 

531:33 Charles Wesley. Brother of John Wesley; 
prolific hymn writer. 


NOTES 6ii 

533:3 even the man Moses—the meekest of men, Was 
wrathful sometimes. See Numbers 5:3 and 31:14. 

534:3 flesh is weak. See Matthew 26:41. 

CHAPTER LI 

536:8 “The God of love and peace be with them. ,, See 

Romans 15:33. 

536:10 “Make them glad according to the days wherein 
thou hast afflicted them. See Psalms 90:15. 

539:23 such as Samuel’s dying speech to the people. 

See I Samuel 12. Perhaps, verse 3 especially appealed to 
Adam and, in vision, he may have fancied himself like 
Samuel in verse 2. 

539:26 Isaac’s meeting with his son. See Genesis 28. 

539:31 Apocrypha. See note on page 227. 

539:3i son of Sirach. The writer of one of the most 
important of the Apocryphal books. 

539:34 Articles. The Thirty-nine Articles of Religion 
of the Church of England. Article VI excludes the Apocrypha 
from the list of accepted Old Testament Books. 

540:14 angel seated on the great stone. See Matthew 
28:2. 

545:36 ‘I came not to call the righteous . . .’ Set Matthew 
9:i3- 

CHAPTER LII 

551:32 Man of Sorrows. See note, p. 354. 

557:8 Exeter Hall. A building in London erected in 
1830-31 and used for assemblies of various kinds, religious, 
philanthropic, and other. 

557:9 Tracts for the Times. Brief religious articles issued 
by John Henry Newman, John Keble, and others, in the 
early days of the Oxford Movement, a religious controversy 
in the thirties and forties of the nineteenth century. 

557:10 Sartor Resartus. Philosophical work by Thomas 
Carlyle, first published in Fraser’s Magazine in 1833-34. 


6 l2 


NOTES 


CHAPTER LIII 

562:1 Tityrus and Meliboeus. Characters in the Ec¬ 
logues of Virgil, famous Latin poet. Tityrus was a freedman 
probably representing the poet himself. Meliboeus was a 
shepherd. 

563:11 ad libitum. In music, indicating the freedom of 
the player in modifying time and expression. 

563:29 forte. Musical term: loud (Italian). 

564:2 fortissimo. Musical term: very loud (Italian). 

566:7 mounseers. Corrupted form of monsieurs. 

566:16 King George. King George III, still reigning but 
not ruling. The Prince Regent, afterwards King George IV, 
was at the head of state. 

566:17 Billy Pitt. William Pitt (1759-1806), the 
“Younger Pitt,” famous British Prime Minister; bitter foe of 
Napoleon. 

566:18 I don’t see myself . . . Parliament. Contrast 
this desire with the modern prominence of the Ministry and, 
more particularly, of the Prime Minister. 

567:8 he’s no Frenchman bom. Napoleon Bonaparte 
was born on the Island of Corsica in 1769, of Tuscan and 
Florentine origin. 

567:12 Socratic argument. Referring to the style of 
argument used by the great Greek philosopher, Socrates 
(469-399 b.c.). Read the article on Socrates in the New 
International Encyclopedia. 

570:15 sotto voce. Softly, in a low voice (Italian). 

CHAPTER LV 

v 578:2 rimy. Frosty. 

578:2 Adam and Dinah were married. George Eliot 
has told us: “Dinah’s ultimate relation to Adam was sug¬ 
gested by George (Lewes), when I had read to him the first 
part of the first Volume: he was so delighted with the presen¬ 
tation of Dinah, and so convinced that the readers’ interest 


NOTES 


613 


would centre in her that he wanted her to be the principal 
figure at the last. I accepted the idea at once, and from the 
end of the third chapter worked with it constantly in view.” 
(Cross: Life , page 281). 

580:22 “Oh what a joyful thing it is.” See Psalm 133:1 
for parallel phrasing. 

EPILOGUE 

583:27 Conference has forbid the women preaching. 
Methodists met from time to time in district conferences for 
discussion and legislation. Evidently, there was a division of 
opinion, in the earliest days, upon the preaching of women. 

584:26 “There’s a sort of wrong that can nearer be made 
up for.” See page 506, line 34. 


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